


patience gets us nowhere fast

by founders



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anxiety, Asexuality, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Trans Male Character, john is trans and asexual thank you for your time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 57,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7466289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/founders/pseuds/founders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Alexander leans into him, whimpers, tips his head back and Gil counts seven hickeys on his throat, <em>seven</em>, and he blinks away the strange jolting shock of knowing it was Thomas who put them there, who sucked and bit and worried at the skin until it bloomed dark reds and purples."</p><p>.</p><p>The One Where alexander and thomas inch their way slowly towards one another whilst all their friends watch in a mixture of horror and amusement, otherwise known as: Five Times people were kind of surprised and One Time someone was not</p><p>[author name used to be rosenbergs]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hercules

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song by capital cities / i changed my user from rosenbergs to founders!
> 
> the timeline for this is iffy, and i re-hash scenes from different pov's a lot, so don't expect anything linear. the events take place over 6 weeks, and then the final scene is a few months after, in the summer. sorry that i repeat so many of the same things from different pov's, i just couldn't help myself. you have been warned!

Hercules is pretty fucking excited about this week’s movie night. John promised they’d watch Lord of the Rings, _finally,_ and he’s got a packet of those chocolate covered pretzels he loves so much and he plans to not share them with any of his friends. He can sleep in tomorrow morning, he brought his own blanket and pillow so he knows he’s guaranteed a good night’s sleep, and nothing can ruin this for him.

“What do you mean, _Jefferson’s coming?_ ” Alexander all but screeches, and immediately shatters all of Hercules’ dreams of a nice peaceful evening.

He closes his eyes for a second, mourning the loss of a quiet night, and lets the door swing shut behind him.

“I’m here,” he announces, but none of them take notice, both John and Alexander glaring mutinously up at Gilbert who has his hands raised as if in innocence. Hercules sighs, heads to the kitchen, intent on finding himself something to drink.

“This is a friendly evening where we watch films, is it not? Thomas is my friend, so I invited him,” he can hear Gilbert saying, and he imagines Alexander’s face in his mind, looking like an angry stuffed owl with his chest puffed out and his big round eyes trying to spontaneously produce superpowers that can reduce Gilbert to a pile of ash and soot on the floor.

“But he’s not our friend,” John snaps. Hercules absently imagines him pouting. There’s a glass in the back of the cupboard that’s his favourite, one with TIE-Fighters and X-Wings printed on from the Disney store. He has to move a bunch of other glasses out of the way to get to it, but it’s extremely satisfying once it’s in his grasp.

“Maybe if you spend time with him, then he will become your friend,” Gilbert says and Hercules winces, knowing that won’t go down well. There’s sounds of scuffling feet on the floor and a grunt, which Hercules can’t quite parse out the meaning of, but an elaborate scenario of Alexander throwing himself at Gilbert and John jumping in to hold him back spins out in the theatre that is his brain.

“I already spend too much time with him,” comes Alexander’s voice.

Hercules snorts. “You barely see the man,” Gilbert protests and voices what Hercules is thinking.

“Barely is too much,” Alexander says petulantly and Hercules rolls his eyes, grabs the orange juice from the fridge and starts to rummage around for the vodka. He’ll need a screwdriver as big as his head to survive this night, it seems.

“Is he staying the night?” John asks. Hercules picks up an empty bottle of vodka and discards it, pulling a face. Why do people put back empty bottles in the alcohol cupboard? That’s just irresponsible and deliberately villainous towards people like himself who are desperately in search of alcohol at, he checks his watch, five fifteen in the afternoon.

“He might,” Gilbert’s saying slowly, “If neither of you murder him during the films.”

“I hope he does,” Alexander says, sounding excited, and Hercules furrows his brow, tuning back in properly. That’s an odd thing for Alexander to say, considering his simmering hatred for Jefferson has been burning steady and bright since college, despite the fact that they’re all reasonable grown ups now and should have left behind petty squabbles years ago. Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson, and petty squabbles seem to go hand in hand, however, and they always manage to find something to fight about, surprising exactly no one and exasperating pretty much everyone.

“Because then I can shave off all his hair and his eyebrows in the middle of the night,” he continues and Hercules sighs heavily. It was too much to hope, it seems, that Alexander might have gotten over whatever it is about Jefferson that ticks him off so much.

Hercules isn’t the man’s biggest fan, but he’s also not that terrible either. If Gilbert’s friends with him then it must be for a reason and he’s not about to question Gil’s judgement. He’s seen Jefferson in action, the flashy and arrogant facade he slides on like one of Hercules’ custom suits, but he’s also seen him with his guard down, caught glimpses of a man with tired eyes, slumped shoulders, a shy nature about him that sits at odds with every story Alexander’s ever told about him from his college days. He wonders if Alexander has seen Jefferson like that, the gentle smiles he bestows upon Gilbert and Madison and Angelica, the anxiety that seems to overtake him sometimes, the way he fumbles his words occasionally and then looks crushed, like he’s berating himself for not practicing his speech enough.

He and Alexander trade barbs like other people trade pleasantries: every ‘hey, how are you’ is replaced by an insult, a sneer, a thinly veiled piece of mockery. Hercules would be worried if he didn’t know they both enjoy it thoroughly. There’s nothing that can quite make Alexander’s eyes light up than the opportunity to verbally rip into Jefferson. Hercules usually rolls his eyes and lets them get on with it; they’ve covered nearly every argument of import from women’s rights to the ecosystem time and time again and he suspects they continue to fight simply because it’s what they’re used to and both of them get off on it in a weird way.

He knows his night isn’t going to be as relaxing as he thought it was, but he’s got his screwdriver in his Star Wars glass and he gets to watch Lord of the Rings and eat his special pretzels, so really it’s not so bad. He’ll just attempt to block out the bickering of Alexander and Jefferson and concentrate on how glorious Aragorn is instead.

Jefferson shows up twenty minutes late, John and Alexander both openly scowling at him, but they keep quiet and shovel popcorn in their mouths instead of starting something. Hercules catches them giggling some time later, follows their eyes and sees the small kernels of popcorn that have lodged themselves in Jefferson’s hair, and frowns. He kicks out towards the couch from his armchair and connects his foot with Alexander’s shin.

“Stop it,” he whispers and Alexander sticks his tongue out at him.

He sighs and goes back to watching the majesty that is Legolas. Jefferson and Gilbert are whispering about something on the floor, their heads bent together, and Hercules grunts and tunes them out, trying to focus. Sips on his second screwdriver of the night and wonders how many he’ll get through by the time the credits roll on the third movie.

“I’m getting some wine, anyone else want a drink?” Alexander asks, heaving himself upwards from the couch whilst Gil switches out the first DVD for the second.

“Get me a glass,” Jefferson calls and Alexander blinks, hands on hips.

“Did anyone else just hear the squeak of a rat or was that just me?”

Jefferson glares up at him. “Please, come up with something better next time, hobbit.”

Hercules internally gives him kudos for an insult that refers directly to the current situation, but Alexander just sniffs. “So no one wants anything then?” he says, deliberately ignoring Jefferson, and flounces into the kitchen. Hercules watches as Jefferson growls and stalks after him, hearing a bang from the kitchen and then muffled voices, harsh and angry.

He stares flatly at Gilbert. “It’s going to be a long night.”

Gilbert nods slowly. He looks like he’s just swallowed a lemon.

“I fear I have made a mistake,” he says solemnly, and John throws a pillow at the side of his head.

Jefferson stomps out about fifteen minutes into the second film, hands empty of a wine glass and shirt stained with purple coloured liquid. Alexander trails after him, looking smug, and flops onto the couch, stretching out like a cat in the sun. Jefferson proceeds to rip open a bag of chips and munch on them angrily all through Gollum’s scene, and Hercules debates kicking up a fuss, but decides on sending Gil about a hundred bitter texts instead. He flinches every time his phone vibrates and Hercules grins to himself.

They order pizza, he and John splitting one with a veritable mountain of peppers and olives, Gil ordering his usual Hawaiian, and Alexander and Jefferson surprisingly going splits on the spiciest one on the menu. John and Alexander jog downstairs to grab the boxes and pay the delivery guy and Jefferson takes the opportunity to jump onto the couch previously occupied by them, stretching out his obnoxiously long legs and digging his toes into the cushions at the end. He sighs happily and wriggles, scrunching his nose up. Gil and Hercules watch him go about staking his claim, rubbing himself all over the fabric like a dog, and shake their heads in unison.

“They’re not going to be happy,” Gil says lightly.

Jefferson smiles like a shark, sharp and dangerous. “Then they can suck my dick.”

Gil rolls his eyes. “Why do you have to provoke them so, Alexander especially?”

Jefferson blinks at him. “Because it’s fun.”

“They are my friends, I’d appreciate it if you tried to get along.”

“Believe it or not, but my bickering with those two idiots is us getting along. Hamilton and I go way back, this is how we’ve always been and always will be.”

Gil heaves a great sigh. Hercules flicks his eyes between them like the conversation is a tennis match.

“You could try to be nicer,” Gil says finally. Jefferson is silent for a moment, his eyes dark and wary.

“It would weird them out if I was _nice,_ ” he says, “This is fine, it’s comfortable, I’m happy with it. It’s fun to pull Hamilton’s pigtails.”

“And John?” Gil asks, raising his eyebrows.

Jefferson scrunches up his face. “He’s like Hamilton’s little bulldog, he’s completely whipped. Who knew Hamilton could fuck so good to wrap a dude around his finger like that.”

Hercules coughs. “They’re not fucking,” he finds himself saying.

Jefferson turns his eyes on him, surprise mixed in with something else. “They’re not?”

Hercules shakes his head. “John’s asexual. He and Ham gave the dating thing a bash about a year ago but it didn’t work out.”

“Huh,” Jefferson says eloquently and turns back around, crossing his arms over his chest. Gil shoots a look at him that Hercules can’t read, but he’s hungry and he can’t be bothered to get invested in this right now.

John and Alexander stumble back in, Alexander pushing on the small of John’s back and giggling in the high pitched way he does when he’s had too much to drink, and John trying to shove an entire slice of pizza into his mouth. Hercules huffs a short breath and snatches the box out of his hands, wanting to eat his share before John inhales it all, and John whines and makes grabby hands, crawling into Hercules’ lap and wiggling around until Hercules lets him grab a slice just to shut him up. He wraps an arm around John’s waist to keep him there, quietly enjoying his warmth, the way John hums happily as he munches his way through the slice.

Alexander drops the Hawaiian pizza in Gil’s lap, pulling a face, and then pulls an even uglier face when he spins around and sees Jefferson stretched out over the couch, grinning smugly. He stares for a second. Hercules can see his jaw twitch. He laughs under his breath and pokes John in the side, drawing his attention away from the pizza and to the staring match currently occurring in front of them.

Alexander lifts his chin, holding the pizza box over his head, and clambers up onto the couch, sitting heavily down on Jefferson’s chest. The man groans like he’s dying, hands coming up to ineffectually push at Alexander’s thighs, and Alexander just wiggles his weight down harder and continues to hold the box over his head, away from Jefferson’s grabby hands.

“Come on, Hamilton, what the fuck,” Jefferson whines.

“Nope,” Alexander says happily, licking his lips and taking a bite.

“You weigh a fucking tonne, I can’t breathe, _Christ,_ ” Jefferson grits out.

“Oh, how you sweet talk me so well,” Alexander says flatly.

“Fucking get off,” Jefferson demands.

“Nope.”

“Hamilton.”

“Nope.”

“ _Alexander._ ”

“Not until you give me the couch back.”

“Are none of y’all gonna say anything,” Jefferson flings his arms out dramatically and stares beseechingly at all of them.

“Nope,” they all say simultaneously.

“Maybe you could _share_ the couch,” Gil says around a mouthful of cheese.

Alexander and Jefferson make twin faces of disgust. Hercules snorts and feels John shaking with laughter in his lap. Jefferson sighs like it’s the most put upon he’s ever been and bends his legs up, freeing some space at the end of the couch. Alexander looks at it, tilts his head, then scrambles off his chest and dives into the space before Jefferson can bring his legs down. He almost gets kicked in the face but Jefferson, thankfully, misses, and his legs fall into Alexander’s lap instead. Hercules stares at them both and shakes his head.

“I just can’t look away,” John says, his voice full of perplexed wonder, watching Alexander pass the box of pizza to Jefferson along with his discarded crusts, which Jefferson eats happily as if it's something he's done a thousand times before. Hercules drags his reluctant eyes away, squeezes John’s waist, and chooses to watch the rest of the film instead of staring in awe at the utterly surprising spectacle of cooperation unfolding on the couch.

Jefferson falls asleep during the unnecessarily long third one, as does John, and Hercules carefully lifts him up and deposits him in his bed, watching him snuffle into the pillows. Gil follows sleepily, curls himself around John, and Hercules strokes over both of their heads for a long moment, sighs, and walks back into the living room.

Alexander’s paused the film, the TV casting a yellow sort of haze over his skin.

“You taking Gil’s bed?” he asks, voice hushed.

Hercules tilts his head at him. “Don’t you want to?”

Alexander shrugs. “I’m fine out here, if you leave your blanket.”

Hercules narrows his eyes at him, watching Alexander stare him down with carefully blank eyes. He flicks his gaze to Jefferson, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the way his mouth has fallen open just a little.

“Okay,” he says simply, hands the blanket to Alexander, then turns on his heel and closes the door to Gil’s bedroom behind him, crawling into Gil’s bed and smothering himself with the pillow.

He very carefully doesn’t think about what just happened and falls into sleep.

.

He shuffles out the next morning, eyes bleary and sticking together, throat parched and head slightly throbbing from the multiple screwdrivers he consumed last night. His brain is barely functioning, the need for a glass of water the only thing he can really think about right now, but he stumbles to a stop when his eyes manages to send signals to his brain about what he’s seeing.

Jefferson’s stretched out on his back, Alexander on his chest, drooling onto his shirt. The blanket is covering both of them except for Jefferson’s feet sticking out the end. He’s got his phone out, one hand on Alexander’s back, and he doesn’t seem to care that Alexander’s actively leaving spit stains on his likely very expensive clothing.

“Hey,” Hercules says, voice rough.

Jefferson’s eyes flick up, his gaze as carefully blank at Alexander’s was last night. Hercules pointedly doesn’t say anything, merely nods his head at them.

“Hey,” Jefferson says back, tilting his chin up, and goes back to scrolling through something on his phone.

Hercules shakes his head and picks his way across the living room, avoiding standing on abandoned bowls of popcorn and chips and stray pizza crumbs, and fumbles around the kitchen for a glass. He fills it at the tap, takes a long satisfying sip, and listens to the sound of Alexander yelping and the thud that follows. He probably just fell off the couch.

Hercules refills his glass and picks his way back across living room and carefully does not gawk at the way Alexander willingly climbs back on top of Jefferson and buries his face into his neck. He also deliberately does not choke on his own spit when Jefferson lifts his hand and slides his fingers into Alexander’s hair, holding him to his body gently.

He wonders if he’s going to have to start calling Jefferson _Thomas._

.

One of Hercules’ favourite things in the world is his Tuesday afternoon book club at the local café where he can sit and sip tea and talk to other like minded people about books without his somewhat intense friends jumping in and taking over the conversation. He absently listens to Salma chat about her baby boy and orders his tea with a slice of lemon, gently leading her over to where the group is taking up all the comfy chairs in the corner.

Hercules loves it here, the big windows that let all the sunlight in and the big squishy chairs in the back next to the bookcases filled with donated books. The rest of the café is bustling with little cosy tables and a wrap around counter, lots of cute pictures on the walls, and coffee that’s worth paying full price for. It’s always a pleasant hour spent talking about books and it’s a nice break from the shop, plus he’s ninety percent sure this is the only coffee shop in New York City that Alexander Hamilton hasn’t discovered yet.

This illusion is unfortunately shattered when Hercules looks up from his mug and spots Alexander halfway across the room, jiggling his leg and sipping from a coffee mug as large as his head. Hercules knows he’s practically a third Gilmore girl, he drinks more coffee than he has blood in his veins, but a mug of that size seems rather over the top. He worries for a second that his nice quiet book club will be pounced upon by Alexander, a man who spouts opinions off the top of his head like his brain is a flourishing garden, but Alexander doesn’t seem to have noticed him. He hesitates for a second, wondering if he should approach and say hi, when Jefferson strides through the door and heads straight for Alexander’s table and Hercules almost chokes on his tea.

Jefferson peels off his stupidly expensive leather gloves and drops them on the table, gracefully taking a seat and glaring at Alexander. Hercules can’t see Alexander’s expression, since his back is to him, but he imagines he’s glaring right back. To his surprise, Alexander nudges over a reasonably sized mug towards Jefferson and Jefferson wraps his hands around it like he’s grateful.

Salma digs her elbow into his side and he drags his eyes away to see the entire group staring at him.

“So?” Alfredo asks, “You got an opinion on Northanger Abbey versus Emma?”

Hercules sits up straighter and excitedly launches into the massive faults in Northanger Abbey, possibly scaring a few of the newer members, but Salma is nodding along which reassures him and keeps him going. He rambles for long minutes about how shitty Northanger is as a gothic novel, how Catherine has zero character development unlike Emma who actually grows up, and how the majority of it takes place in _Bath_ so he’s slightly confused as to why it’s even called Northanger Abbey in the first place.

He gets a bit swept up, bandying opinions back and forth with the group and gratefully accepting another cup of tea from one of the newer members, smiling at them because they seem nervous. He listens to the newbies introduce themselves and their favourite books, gets a little too hyped about Marcus Sedgwick, and forgets all about Alexander and Jefferson until the loud screeching sound of a chair scraping abruptly across the floor makes him look up.

He catches Jefferson trying to stalk across the floor and to the door before Alexander grabs his sleeve and pulls him down to viciously whisper close to his face. He can see Alexander’s lips pull back in a snarl and Jefferson’s own face looks thunderous, hissing something before sharply yanking his arm out of Alexander’s grip and banging out the door.

Hercules sips his tea and watches Alexander stare blankly at the door, utterly still and silent, before slowly turning around and picking his coffee back up. He gestures to Salma that he’ll be right back and heaves himself out of the squishy chair, carefully rounding the table where Alexander sits, still staring blankly, and waves a hand in his face.

Alexander startles like he’d forgotten for a second that he wasn’t the only person on the planet. “Oh,” he says eloquently, “Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” Hercules says back and pointedly does not saying anything about the leather gloves still on the table top or the abandoned cup of coffee still half full.

“What are you doing here?” he asks instead, “I thought you had class at this hour.”

Alexander scowls. “Class project, had to get together with my partner and discuss things,” he says bitterly. Hercules wants to make a quip about how well their discussions seem to be going but Alexander’s avoiding his eyes and there’s a flush on his cheeks that betrays how affected he truly is. He says nothing.

“Can I get you another cup of coffee?” he asks, assuming Alexander will be almost done with the humongous mug and will probably immediately want another, considering his addiction is borderline worrying at this point. He’d probably eat coffee grind right out the packet if he could get away with it, which is horrifying.

Alexander blinks, and then surprises him by saying _no._ Hercules feels his eyebrows fly way up on his forehead and Alexander is once again avoiding his eyes, gathering his bag and hesitating before grabbing the gloves and shoving them in his coat pocket.

“I gotta go, gotta take a walk, gotta… Think for a bit, clear my mind, smell the roses, you know, as you do,” he babbles nervously and Hercules nods along like this is the most normal conversation he and Alexander have ever had and doesn’t say anything when Alexander abruptly nods his head and scarpers as if the floor has suddenly turned into lava.

Hercules sips at his tea again, slips out his phone and sends a text to Alexander, figuring it’ll be easier for him to broach the subject when Alexander doesn’t have to look at him. He gets awkward around people sometimes, and Hercules knows that as much as he feeds and thrives off of grabbing people’s attention and being listened to and looked at that sometimes he also feels trapped, needs to escape, needs to hole himself up and away until John and Gil and Hercules all bust through the lock on his door and drag him back into the sunlight kicking and screaming.

He doesn’t get a reply but the invitation to talk is still out there, so Hercules hums and goes back to his book club until it ends and whistles as he walks back to the shop, saving his apprentice from a finicky customer and taking over smoothly, getting lost in the soothing repetitive pattern of measuring and sewing, holding pins in his mouth and absently shoving his glasses up his nose to get a closer look at the fabric.

He’s making pasta when Alexander bustles in, slamming the door behind him and all but ripping off his coat and shoes and dropping dramatically down onto the floor, splaying out and groaning loudly. Hercules blinks down at him and continues to stir the pasta in the pot, listening to Alexander’s sighs get louder and louder until he just can’t be ignored anymore.

“You’re being dramatic,” he says and Alexander sighs louder.

“My life is over,” he bemoans.

“You’re being dramatic,” he says again.

“I just want to die.”

“Again: you’re being dramatic.”

“Could you come and lay on top of me? Just for a little bit? I need to not breathe for a while.”

Hercules stirs the pasta again, debating whether Alexander is being serious or not. Alexander sighs again, air blowing through his lips in an impressive gust, and he looks like he’s actually in pain, eyebrows furrowed and cheeks flushed.

Hercules texts Gil, who doesn’t respond, and then John who responds immediately in a string of texts that startle him somewhat. _He likes the pressure,_ John texts, _Make sure he can still breathe and he’s on a soft surface so he doesn’t fuck up his back. Just lie chest to chest on top of him and maybe don’t press all your weight down since I think he’s only ever done it with me and you’re a heavy dude._ Hercules blinks. _That wasn’t an insult,_ John texts, _just fact. I’m skinny and lame and you’re a brick house. I’m jealous. Try not to kill him please I like him when he’s breathing._

 _You’re one of the very few,_ Hercules texts back and John sends him several middle finger emojis. He peers down at Alexander, still splayed out on the floor, his eyes closed and his lashes smudging against his cheeks and continues stirring the pasta until the timer on his phone goes off and he can strain it. He shakes it in the colander, then tips it back into the pot and adds butter, letting it melt, then sprinkles some salmon and chilli flakes over it. He packs it up into two tupperware boxes and pops them in the fridge to eat later, and then stands over Alexander for a long minute before hauling him up into his arms and striding off to the bedroom. Alexander wraps his arms and legs around him like a limpet, making no noise of protest, simply burying his face in Hercules’ shoulder.

“I’m gonna lay on top of you for a bit,” Hercules says, dumping Alexander on the bed and watching him bounce around a bit before he settles on the pillows, “And then we’re gonna use the last of my weed and share a joint.”

“Sounds good,” Alexander says, “Crush me please,” and he makes grabby hands.

Hercules rolls his eyes but crawls up, hovers over Alexander for a second, checking for any sign that he wants to back out, before unceremoniously dropping all his weight down and hearing Alexander groan. He wiggles around a little and Alexander flings his arms out wide. Hercules feels his breathing slow down and watches his fingers twist in the sheets.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks, voice low.

Alexander’s knuckles go white. “Can barely breathe right now, talking isn’t really on the menu unless you actually want me to die.”

Hercules rolls his eyes, props himself up a little, looking down at Alexander. His lip is caught between his teeth, and he still looks pained.

“Are you being careful?” he asks.

Alexander squeezes his eyes shut harder. “There’s no reason anything about this should be un-careful,” he murmurs nonsensically, “It’s just a class project.”

Hercules doesn’t say _but what about your heart_ like he wants to, merely drops his weight back down and lies there in silence until he decides he’s probably flattened Alexander into enough of a pancake for the evening and hauls himself off. Alexander whimpers but goes with it, looking a little bit dazed but perking up when Hercules starts to roll the joint and eagerly taking a deep drag, exhaling a long breath.

They make their way through the joint which runs out pretty quickly since Alexander takes twice as many hits as Hercules and doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it. Hercules shakes his head and listens to him ramble long sentences that only half make sense, his hands gesticulating wildly and his eyes looking a little glazed.

“I still have his gloves,” he says abruptly, looking lost. “What do I do with his gloves, they don’t fit my hands, my hands are too small, his hands are too big, his hands are _really_ big, what am I supposed to _do_ with that?”

“Maybe give him the gloves back the next time you see him,” Hercules says, trying to be reasonable and save Alexander from his babbling.

“Oh,” Alexander says. “What if I don’t want to?”

“You want to keep the gloves?” Hercules asks. Alexander nods. He stares at the side of his friends face, privately thinking he’s insane. “Why?”

“They smell nice.”

“They smell like leather.”

“They smell like his hand moisturiser, which smells nice,” Alexander elaborates.

“So return his gloves and ask what moisturiser he uses and then buy it for yourself,” he provides.

“There are three problems with that suggestion,” Alexander starts as if it’s an opening statement. Hercules wonders if he just talks like that at all times like it’s some sort of brainwashing technique, to prepare him for a life of practicing law.

“Go on,” he sighs, resigning himself to his fate.

“One: I will come off as a very strange person if I tell him I smelled his gloves and like the smell and want to know where he got the smell.”

“I imagine that you already come off as a very strange person to him, and you also don’t have to tell him you smelled his gloves.”

Alexander ignores him. “Two,” he continues as if Hercules hasn’t said anything, “He’s got a lot of money and spends it frivolously all the time and his moisturiser is likely to be very expensive,” he takes a few seconds to pronounce 'frivolously' like his tongue can’t quite wrap around it.

“And this is relevant, why?” Hercules asks, stretching his arm across Alexander’s back and pulling him into his side. He rubs his head against Hercules’ chest and makes muffled noises.

Hercules tugs on his hair, long and soft and slipping through his fingers like water. “What was that?”

“Because I’m poor,” Alexander whines.

“You’re not poor, you’re rich in friends and love and smarts-”

“-I mean in actual dough-”

“-You’re also not poor in dough, considering the amount of pizza you eat,” he continues blithely and Alexander digs his chin into his ribs.

“You’re the worst,” he mumbles and Hercules grins up at the ceiling.

“What’s the third problem?” he prompts.

“Huh?” Alexander murmurs. His eyes are slipping closed. Hercules continues to pet his hair, thoroughly enjoying how soft and silky it is.

“You said there were three problems with my statement, what’s the third?”

“Oh,” Alexander mumbles. “Three: I want to keep the gloves, because they’re his, and I want to… Hold onto something.”

Hercules carries on stroking his hair, breathing steadily.

“Are you going to build a shrine around the gloves?” he asks finally and Alexander snorts.

“No.”

“Well then,” he says, “I see no reason why you cannot keep the gloves. Let the smarmy bastard buy new ones if he can afford it.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Alexander says, his voice slow and drowsy. Hercules sweeps his hand up and down his back, breathing in the stale scent of weed permeating the room, and lets him fall asleep on his chest. Then he wiggles out his phone and sends a text to Gil, because he’s a terrible person who literally cannot be held back from sharing gossip immediately.

 _Holy shit,_ Gil texts him back, _This is either the best or the worst thing to ever happen._ Hercules thinks that sums it up pretty much perfectly.

He hums, rolls Alexander over so he can spoon up behind him, and buries his nose in Alexander’s lovely hair. Alexander starts to snore, a tiny whistling noise on every exhale that’s both incredibly endearing and annoying at the same time. He blocks it out, inhales the honey smell of Alexander’s shampoo, and very decisively does not think about the implications of the information he’s just learned.

The next morning Alexander downs almost an entire pot of coffee, kisses Hercules on the cheek, and seemingly drags himself through getting ready for the day with his eyes half closed. Hercules keeps quiet when he sees him sliding on Jefferson’s gloves at the door, too large for his hands, and merely files away the observation into the new folder in his mind, mentally highlighting the tiny upward curve of Alexander’s mouth as he flexes his fingers.

 _This is either going to be really good or really bad,_ he thinks, sighs, and takes another sip of coffee.


	2. gilbert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I… fell,” Alexander says, wincing. Gilbert feels his eyebrows rise on his forehead.  
> “On your neck?”  
> “Hamilton has an incredible ability to pull off entirely implausible things,” Thomas intones and Alexander whirls around, seemingly forgetting about Gil entirely.  
> “That almost sounded like a compliment,” he says, his voice sounding a bit stunned.

Gilbert’s phone vibrates a few times but he’s, uh, a bit busy and, honestly, concentrating on the guy between his thighs is far preferable to checking his phone right now, so whoever it is can wait until he’s come all over this guy’s face and is lolling in that perfect post-orgasm haze that he craves so much, so often.

He picked the guy up in the library and he can’t really remember his name- it begins with a B: Benji? Billy? Barry?- but he’s sweet and he’s got stubble that scratches across the sensitive insides of his thighs and Gil really isn’t complaining when he looks up at him with dark eyes and licks his lips, the sticky white of Gil’s come disappearing on a pink tongue, and he grins and drags him up for a kiss, ignoring when his phone vibrates again in his pocket.

The guy breathes his thanks across his lips and it’s so incredibly endearing that Gil almost takes pity on him and offers a hand, but he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, so he wraps one hand around the guy’s wrist, nails biting into his soft skin, and guides his fingers to his own fly.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and the guy whines and presses his face into Gil’s neck, shaking fingers pulling out his cock from his pants. Gil takes advantage of his distraction, keeping one eye on the pink head of the guy’s cock slipping through his fist, and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

 _Alexander wants me to lie on top of him, is that normal?_ Hercules has texted him, and Gil furrows his brow and tilts his head. He hears the guy whine again and absently murmurs encouragement and reads the next text. _It’s okay, John explained, ttyl._

Gil shrugs and pockets his phone again, just as the guy comes messily all over his fist. Gil subtly leans his hips away so none of the semen gets on his jeans and waits for a minute, a whole sixty seconds counting down in his head, and then he pushes the guy away and lopes off to the bathroom to wipe the sweat off his neck, leaving the guy to do whatever it is he does after he comes. He hums as he washes his hands, re-ties his hair so the flyaway curls are under control again, and swipes some clear gloss across his lips, pouting at himself in the mirror.

The guy still seems sort of dazed when he reappears and Gil tilts his head at him. He steers him to the door, presses a firm kiss against his cheek, and slips his phone number in his back pocket.

“Call me, _mon petit,_ ” he says lowly, and the guy nods and wanders off down the corridor. Gil watches him go for a moment, then shrugs and shuts the door again, intent on drawing himself a bath full of bubbles and massaging some gorgeous smelling body lotion all over his skin to soothe the lingering stubble burn and to make himself all pretty and perfect again.

The bathroom fills with steam and he breathes deeply, stripping and stretching his muscles as the bath fills up, and he tips some bath salts in with the bubbles for an extra pop. He wiggles his toes once he’s in the water, letting it slip up his chest until he’s mostly submerged, then lazily reaches for his phone and loads the latest clip of violin music Thomas has sent him, letting the sweet music wash over him and relaxing entirely.

He was already loose from his orgasm and this is just the cherry on the cake- he thinks that’s the right phrase. This is probably the kind of feeling that his friends catch from getting high, but Gil doesn’t really go for that, prefers to keep himself clean, but John’s tried to describe the sensation to him more than once and Gil’s never really understood, just pet his hair and made appropriate noises to keep him talking.

Thomas’ recording is beautiful, slow and hauntingly lingering, like he’s trying to say something important through the notes, and Gil frowns when his phone vibrates and cuts off the melody. He huffs a breath and wipes his hands off on a nearby fluffy towel and checks his texts. Hercules has texted him a string of messages, something uncommon for him, since he tends to be succinct and to the point. Gil feels his eyebrows rise high up on his forehead.

 _Alexander’s passed out after getting high and telling me he wants to “keep” Thomas,_ he’s texted, and then: _As in Jefferson,_ followed by: _Can you believe this shit,_ and finally: _He likes the way Jefferson SMELLS._

Gil stares at his phone for a moment, caught in a moment of absolute shock. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, caught off guard, feeling like he can’t quite process this information. _Alexander_ and _Thomas?_ He blinks for a moment, and then reasons that it makes an absurd amount of sense.

His hand has gone limp, his phone dangerously close to falling into the sudsy water, and he quickly adjusts his grip and texts back: _Holy shit, this is either the best or worst thing to ever happen._

He lies back and blows a breath through his lips, staring at his toes peeking out from the water, just starting to prune. He wonders what sparked this, if it was just the inevitable path of years of arguing and flirting and watching each other with hungry eyes, or if there was something that tipped them over, the turning point, and summit they climbed and then threw themselves off of.

He drains the bath and pats himself down, wrapping a towel around his slim hips and another around his hair. He ponders over Thomas’ music as he goes, only sent to him the day before, and wonders who the wistful tune was written for.

.

It’s not often Gil turns up on campus, but most of his close friends are still in education and sometimes he just has nothing better to do than loll around and pester people until they entertain him. When his schedule is free, no meetings or photoshoots or interviews, he sometimes pops into his friends’ classes, sits in on class discussions with Angelica and admires her infinite brains and quick wit, sometimes sneaks into the back of Madison’s classes and observes the flick of his wrist as he diligently takes notes, watches Alexander taunt Burr until his jaw seems permanently locked in place, watches him spit and scoff and roll his eyes at the opinions of others he deems inferior in his lectures, watches he and Thomas spark off each other, yelling across the room, until their unfairly attractive Professor pinches the bridge of his nose and puts them in time out like squabbling school children.

His favourite place to be, however, is with John, quietly watching him create beautiful works of art out of lumps of clay, dragging his eyes across the flecks of paint that gather on his skin like it’s one of his canvas’ in progress, drinking in the way his brow furrows as he figures out where to place the next line in the sketchbook. He’ll sigh and rest his head on his hands, wishing John would turn around and see him, possibly draw him, give all his attention to Gilbert, but John hardly ever notices he’s there, too lost in his work.

Right now he’s swinging his legs on one of the high stools, paint spattered, and making a tremendous effort to ignore how the chalky dust from the dried clay is probably fucking up his expensive wool trousers. John’s sat a few tables down, cap backwards on his head and puffing up his curls where they poke out, his lip caught between his teeth as he drags his fingers through the wet clay and draws out a vague shape that Gil has no idea how will turn into something lovely, but he has no doubt that John has the ability to make it so. He picks up a little metal tool and drags it through the clay, drawing out a clump, and Gil sighs and stares at his fingers, long and freckled.

He sits and watches for long hours, the sun shining through the windows slowly making it’s way across the floor as noon comes and passes, and he only gets up because his stomach starts rumbling. John doesn’t seem to have noticed, still firmly inside his work headspace, and Gil reluctantly drags his eyes away and wanders off to find some food.

There’s a shortcut across campus that gets him to the sandwich shop faster, and he’s hoping that he’ll be in time to catch the best of the paninis, so he’s trekking across the library floor, past the private rooms you have to book, when he stops short mid-stride at the familiar sound of his two friends’ voices, yelling at each other through the walls. He cocks his head, tries to sound out what they’re shouting about, but it’s too muffled.

He casts a glance around, noting there’s only a small girl in a sweater too large for her and giant headphones jammed over her ears nearby, and sidles up to the room, pressing his ear to the door. It doesn’t really help but it makes him feel sort of like a spy. He accidentally catches the eye of the girl and peels himself away from the door, smiling sheepishly, and she snorts softly and takes off her headphones.

“They’ve been at it for half an hour now,” she tells him solemnly. He makes a humming noise, raising his eyebrows. She shrugs.

“No idea what it’s about,” she says, almost apologetic. “The tall one had the room booked and the small one stormed in and locked the door. He looked pretty angry.”

Gil rolls his eyes a little. “He is always angry, believe me.” She shrugs again and pulls her headphones back on.

He taps his fingers on his thighs, taking another few seconds to listen extra hard as if it’ll help him parse out the indistinct words being thrown around the room harshly, before frowning and leaving them to it, heading to the sandwich shop again. He manages to catch the last halloumi and aubergine one but is disappointed to find that the punnets of red berries he prefers have run out. It’s always fun to suck on the fruit slowly and watch the people around him as their mouths drop open and their eyes glaze over. He wonders if John would notice him, finally, but dismisses the notion. John wouldn’t care about whether he looks sexy eating strawberries; John doesn’t care about sexy at all.

He munches morosely on the panini as he makes his way back to the art room. His pace is slow and rambling and he debates drawing it out and taking the long way back to the art building but then remembers the locked door and loud voices and heads straight for the library.

The girl from before still has her headphones on but Gil can’t hear anything coming from the room, not even when he presses his ear up against it. He catches her eye and she shrugs again, mouths that the yelling stopped a few minutes ago, and he nods slowly, eyeing up the locked door again whilst musing what he should do. His curiosity often gets the best of him, he knows, and he ends up doing some ill thought out things sometimes, but these are his _friends_ and he _cares_ and he also wants to gossip with Hercules.

So he knocks on the door.

It swings open after a few seconds have gone by which Gilbert spends impatiently rocking on his toes, and Alexander looks up at him with startled eyes, lips bright red and slightly wet, a dark bruise low on his throat that he apparently isn’t aware that Gil can see. Gil very carefully doesn’t stare.

“Hi,” Alexander says Gil pretends to ignore how dumb he just sounded and how hoarse his voice is.

“Hello,” he says cheerfully instead. Alexander shifts on his feet, shooting a glance back over his shoulder, and Gil flicks his eyes up and focuses on Thomas, standing with his back to them, hands spread out on the table. His back is tense. Gil can see his fingers shaking slightly.

“A lovely lady outside told me she saw you two come in here,” he starts, dragging his eyes away and focusing on Alexander instead. “I thought I would check that you had not killed each other.”

Thomas makes a funny noise, sort of strangled. Alexander swallows quickly, his eyes darting around nervously.

“I can see you are both still in one piece,” he says slowly, “Though it looks like someone tried to take a bite out of your throat,” he can’t resist adding, nodding to the mark on Alexander’s neck. Alexander’s eyes go wide and his hand flies up and slaps against his skin like it’ll hide anything. Gil has to stifle a laugh.

“I… fell,” Alexander says, wincing. Gilbert feels his eyebrows rise on his forehead.

“On your neck?”

“Hamilton has an incredible ability to pull off entirely implausible things,” Thomas intones and Alexander whirls around, seemingly forgetting about Gil entirely.

“That almost sounded like a compliment,” he says, his voice sounding a bit stunned.

Thomas’ shoulders rise up. “Believe me, it wasn’t.”

Gil stands awkwardly in the silence for a few seconds before he’s unable to stand it any longer. “Well, I’m going to eat the rest of my lunch in John’s company. You are more than welcome to join,” he aims the invitation at both of them but Alexander’s eyes light up like he’s been given an escape route.

“Yes, John, good, brilliant, thank you, lunch sounds so great right now,” and he pushes past Gil until he’s out of the room and tapping his foot impatiently on the floor.

Gilbert blinks at him, then back at Thomas. “Goodbye then, Tommy,” he calls, and Thomas doesn’t even react to the awful nickname he’s told Gil time and time again he hates.

“I enjoyed your latest violin solo, by the way,” he adds, and Thomas’ entire body goes still. “See you later!” he says quickly and leaves before Thomas can open his mouth.

One of Gil’s favourite things about Alexander is that he’s just as curious and impulsive as he himself is, and he doesn’t have to wait long until Alexander’s inherent need to know _everything_ chews through his nerves and he blurts out what he really wants.

“What violin solo?” he asks, obviously trying to sound light and disinterested but failing entirely. His hands tap against his thighs and he’s almost skipping instead of walking, too full of nervous energy. Gil eyes him warily, wondering how far he can push this.

“Thomas often records his new music and sends it to me,” he says slowly, “He knows I appreciate a good violin solo, and Thomas is one of the best players I know. He puts so much emotion into it, it’s incredible. He often gets nervous, though, so he only lets myself and Madison listen to him whilst he practices. He wrote something new this week and recorded it for me, it was very sweet,” he sighs softly.

“Sweet?” Alexander repeats.

Gil nods. “It sounded longing, almost.”

“Longing?” Alexander repeats again, sounding strained.

“Yes, Alexander, sweet and longing, it was a very moving piece. Are you alright?”

“Huh?” Alexander blinks, “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m,” he flaps his hands around and smiles sheepishly. “My mind has wandered, it tends to do that, I’m sorry.”

“It is no problem,” Gil says and wisely keeps quiet for a few moments, taking a couple more bites of his panini.

“That looks good,” Alexander says suddenly and Gil stops humming happily around his bite of halloumi and stares at him.

“What?”

Alexander nods at him. “The panini, it looks good.”

Gil narrows his eyes at him. “Surely you’ve already eaten, your lips are all red.”

Alexander’s mouth drops open. “My what are what?”

“Your lips,” Gil touches the corner of his mouth briefly and Alexander actually flinches away. Gil drops his hand. “The punnets of red berries had all been sold, I assume you had one of them. Why else would your lips be so red?”

Alexander’s mouth opens and shuts a few times until he closes it finally with a click of his teeth and swallows. “Yes, that explains it,” he says, sounding distracted. Gil nods, accepting what is probably a lie.

John’s staring at the door like he’s waiting for someone to walk through it and Gilbert feels a tiny part of his chest crack open and something warm ooze out as John’s eyes light up when he sees him.

“Gil!” he cries, and draws out the soft _G_ sound and Gil smiles happily.

 _“Bonjour, mon coeur,”_ he says softly, and Alexander touches his elbow and smirks at him as he walks past.

John makes happy noises when he sees Alexander is joining them too and abandons his station entirely, hastily washing off his hands of the dried clay when Gil takes an automatic step forward to hug him and John leaves a grey handprint on his shirt.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, ducking his head and flushing, his freckles standing out, and Gilbert feels so soft for him, feels himself melt, feels himself sway forward like he can’t help it, magnetically drawn towards him. Alexander’s smirking again. Gilbert scowls.

“Aw, don’t do that, you’ll ruin your pretty face and never get a modelling contract again,” Alexander coos, faux sweet, and pats his cheek. Gil snaps his teeth at him and John giggles, high pitched, and Gil softens all over again.

They piss about for about an hour, playing football with their fingers and little bits of balled up paper, and Gil takes mercy on Alexander and buys snacks from the vending machine under the guise of his own hunger. He knows Alexander hasn’t had anything for lunch, knows he lied about eating the berries, knows his lips are swollen for a whole other reason. John licks the cheesy dust from the chips off his fingers and Gil watches with heavy eyes and tries to breathe. Alexander kicks him under the table and waggles his eyebrows.

John eventually goes back to moulding the clay and Alexander cites a previous engagement with an essay and Gil sighs and digs out a scarf from his bag, winds it around Alexander’s neck, hiding the bruise at the base of his throat. Alexander avoids his eyes, presses his lips together, but his fingers climb up and touch the front of the soft material where it covers the mark like he can’t help it. His eyes are glassy and far away and Gil nudges him to get him moving again.

“Be careful!” he calls when Alexander nearly walks into the doorjamb and it’s the perfect excuse to voice his concern. Alexander doesn’t need to know he’s leaving off the _with Thomas_ at the end of that, but he knows it and he feels somewhat better for saying half the sentence.

He needs to talk to Hercules.

.

The thing is, Hercules is also unfairly distracting.

He leaves John and his delicate freckles and shy smile and scabbed over knuckles and trades him in for Hercules’ large body, so gentle and strong, his big hands and wide smile and deep voice, all of his little quirks and ticks, the way his eyes shine and he seems to radiate happiness. Gilbert sighs and ignores the pangs in his chest, curls up in Hercules’ lap and buries his nose into his shoulder, seeking out that clean smell that comforts him so much.

“What’s up, what’s wrong,” Hercules murmurs, drags a hand up and down his back, and Gil tries not to shiver too obviously and just whines around the fabric in his mouth instead. Hercules doesn’t ask again, God bless the man, and Gil curls up tighter, drapes himself all over Hercules’ body, pretends for a few minutes that they’re something other than friends until it starts to hurt a little too much.

He eventually shifts, sits up, heaves himself off Hercules’ lap so they sit side by side instead. Hercules lifts the snapback off his own head and places it on Gil’s instead, grins at him, wide and bright. Gil huffs a laugh and adjusts the cap, tucks some curls under the brim so they don’t poof around his head so much.

“I caught the tail end of Thomas and Alexander being Thomas and Alexander today,” he says, voice low. He feels like if he speaks any louder that it’ll shatter the moment they’re building here, this quiet cocoon of safety Hercules has blanketed him in.

“Fighting?” Hercules asks.

Gil shakes his head. “The _new_ Thomas and Alexander, the Thomas and Alexander who want to _keep_ each other.”

Hercules is quiet for a moment. Gil crosses his toes and thinks about how empty his fridge is, how he should go shopping, how he needs to eat something other than poptarts and spaghetti hoops unless he wants his manager to yell at him again, anything but the closeness of Hercules next to him.

“I wasn’t aware it was a mutual… _keeping,_ ” Hercules says awkwardly. “I knew Alexander wanted to _keep_ Jefferson, but I wasn’t aware it went both ways.”

Gil levels him with a funny look. “You can call him Thomas, you know. And I think I interrupted a moment of their mutual _keeping_ ,” he waggles his eyebrows. Hercules pulls a face.

“Okay, we need to come up with a better word than _keep,_ it’s starting to sound weird.”

“We do not have to dance around it,” Gil says and then inwardly rolls his eyes. He’s one to talk about dancing around subjects. He circles and circles both Hercules and John, stares at them from across the proverbial dance floor, but never asks either of them for their hand.

“Fine,” Hercules crosses his arms. His muscles bulge and Gil quickly averts his eyes. “Alexander and _Thomas_ like each other and want to be together and it sounds weird but it actually makes a lot of sense.”

“I know,” Gil agrees, “A strange amount of sense.”

“So what exactly did you interrupt?” Hercules asks, turns over so he’s lying on his stomach on the bed. Gil thinks for a moment about climbing on top of him and straddling his hips, before he thinks better of it.

“Alexander has a huge mark on his neck,” he says, excited to share his gossip. “A hickey, is that right?” Hercules nods. His eyes are half lidded and Gil feels his throat get sticky.

“Someone’s possessive,” Hercules says slowly, low and deep, rumbling. “For the amount that they both talk I don’t think they’re actually communicating with each other very well.”

“They like the sound of their own voices,” Gil agrees.

“Jefferson’s probably trying to stake his claim without actually verbalising it,” and Gil glares at him. Hercules huffs.

“ _Thomas,_ then, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

“You had better,” Gil says lightly, “I think maybe he will be sticking around.”

Hercules groans into the pillow and Gil laughs at him, reaches out to drag his fingers across the soft buzz of hair on Hercules’ head, massages the tips in until Hercules is floppy and pliant and making sweet little sleepy noises. Gil waits until he starts to snore slightly into the pillow then slowly presses a kiss to his forehead and climbs off the bed, straightening out his clothes. He debates taking off the snapback still on his head and ultimately decides against it, wants to keep it, wants to steal it away and add it to his collection of clothes that don’t belong to him.

He slips his phone out of his pocket to check it for emails and finds a text from the guy from a few days ago. He shoots him a text back, a time and a place, and when he fucks the guy with the snapback still on he tells himself it’s to keep his hair out of his eyes and nothing more.

.

Gilbert’s scheduled to show up to some black tie event for a charity, some kind of gala, and he usually loves and hates them in equal parts but tonight some of his friends are here and the love is tipping it for him. He likes showing off, likes being the centre of attention, having people look at him and admire him and lust after him, but he hates the small talk and fake niceties and the way the night seems to drag on and on and _on_ until all the fun gets sucked out of the evening.

Thomas is here because he’s part of this socialite scene anyway, always has to turn up to these things, and when his and Gil’s paths cross it’s like a blessing, like finding a well of cool water in a never ending desert. Thomas gets nervous and anxious around large crowds, walks a very delicate balance of talking loudly and drawing attention to himself and wanting to shrink into the walls and close himself off to everybody. Gilbert touches his waist and his elbows and the tight lines around his eyes and tries to sink some stability into him, some reassurance.

Alexander is here because he’s Washington’s favourite and he wants to get ahead, to promote himself, to secure himself a future. Alexander _loves_ to talk, thrives off it, can run his mouth for so long that the people around him will start to wilt and he’ll just carry on, full steam ahead. He once pulled a filibuster and talked for six hours straight, exhausting everyone but himself, and only stopped because his voice faded away so much no one could hear him, even with the microphone. He probably would have continued using sign language if Madison hadn’t forced him off the stage. Gil generally leaves him to it, supports him from afar, occasionally drags him away when the people he’s talking to look particularly desperate.

It’s not often both Thomas and Alexander are in the same room for events like these, so tonight he gets to watch them watching each other and it’s possibly the most amusing thing he’s ever witnessed. He texts Hercules updates throughout the night, sips at his champagne and shakes hands with so many people that he has to crack out the hand sanitizer, and observes Thomas and Alexander as they circle each other and never quite collide.

Alexander’s bowtie comes undone halfway through the evening and Gil counts two new marks, dark and sharp looking, and then a few more that have faded enough to tell him that this thing between them is still going on. Thomas is apparently _very_ possessive, and Hercules insists on photo evidence, and so starts his somewhat underhanded plan to get Alexander drunk enough to not care if Gil pulls the collar of his shirt down and thoroughly inspects his throat.

His plan backfires, however, because a usual drunk Alexander is giggly and sweet and pliable but the drunk Alexander that emerges tonight is sad and weepy and rambling nonsense in a hoarse voice.

“There’s a dent in my door, did you know, how do you even get a dent out of a door? I can’t believe we dented the door, there’s an actual dip in the w-, w-, _wood,_ it’s _evidence,_ it _stares at me_ when I’m trying to sleep, how am I supposed to sleep with that dent fixing its beady eyes on me?” he hiccups. Gil rubs his back and looks around the room desperately for an escape route.

“I do not think dents have eyes,” he says absently and Alexander whines.

 _“They do,_ though, Gilbert, everything in my room has eyes, and all the eyes are _judging me._ They’ve _seen things,_ Gilbert, terrible, amazing things.”

“Okay,” Gil says, placating. Alexander’s eyes are glazed and he’s swaying on the spot, the drink in his hand threatening to spill over his knuckles and onto the floor. Gil carefully extracts it from his grip and throws it back himself, needing the extra kick in order to keep his sanity in tact.

“Amazing things,” Alexander repeats. His mouth has dropped open, pink and soft, and Gil’s eyes linger automatically before he remembers that Alexander belongs to someone else, whether he knows it or not.

“Okay, _mon chou,_ ” he says, strokes the back of Alexander’s neck. Alexander leans into him, whimpers, tips his head back and Gil counts seven hickeys on his throat, _seven,_ and he blinks away the strange jolting shock of knowing it was Thomas who put them there, who sucked and bit and worried at the skin until it bloomed dark reds and purples.

He thinks he should find Thomas, then, because as much as he loves Alexander and wants to be there for him, he does actually have work to do tonight, contacts to make, _networking_ or whatever it is his manager calls it. He made a mistake getting Alexander so drunk, that was stupid and selfish and he regrets it now because Alexander has plastered himself to Gil’s side and he can feel the dampness of tears on the sleeve of his suit. He can’t help Alexander, he doesn’t know what to say, can’t get a grip on his own messy feelings about Hercules and John to even know where to begin with Alexander’s about Thomas.

He keeps his eyes peeled for Thomas’ signature hairdo and maneuvers Alexander away from the bar. Alexander is limp and heavy and mumbling into Gil’s lapels and all he can think about is how hard Hercules is going to laugh at him for this later, the dick. Gil knows it’s his own fault but it was supposed to be _funny_ and this is _not funny,_ this is actually kind of concerning. He halts and tugs on Alexander’s hair, pulls him upright so Gil can see his face, and there’s fat tears rolling down his cheeks. His eyes are wide and wet and he’s hiccuping softly and Gil’s heart breaks for him.

 _“Merde,_ ” he whispers vehemently under his breath and hugs Alexander close, still scanning the room for Thomas.

He spots him in the far corner, nursing a drink and trying to hide behind a pillar, but his garish purple clothing makes him stand out no matter how hard he tries. Gil inwardly winces at the mauve coloured print, almost tweed-like in pattern, and the deep plum turtleneck that Gil _knows_ is soft as hell because Thomas is a slut for the gentle slide of something delicate across his skin and Gil knows him all too well. He adjusts Alexander and sets off dragging him across the floor, practically steamrolling several people to get to Thomas faster.

“Help me,” he says desperately once he’s in earshot and Thomas’ eyes go wide and he stands up straight, automatically putting his drink down and reaching his hands out for Alexander. His fingers twitch and hover in the air, like he’s not sure if he can touch, and Gil makes a strangled noise and all but pushes Alexander over to him.

Alexander goes willingly once he catches sight of whose body he’s now attached to and all but melts into Thomas’ side, slides his hands under his jacket and wraps himself around him like a particularly stubborn koala. Thomas looks down at him for a second and Gil is almost sad that he can’t see his eyes, can’t tell what he’s feeling right now, but knows that this is probably private. He averts his gaze instead, eyes wandering across the couples on the dance floor instead of the couple next to him.

“I’ll take him home,” Thomas’ voice cuts through the din and Gil turns towards him. His voice is quiet, his accent thick, like it always gets when he’s had a bit of alcohol in him.

“Thank you,” Gil breathes, grateful beyond belief, and Thomas simply nods.

“Come on, darlin’,” he murmurs and Alexander mumbles into the soft fabric of his sweater, going easily when Thomas starts to move towards the door.

Gil watches them go, watches the way Alexander curls himself into Thomas’ body, watches Thomas’ hands hover over him nervously before settling one on his back and one in his hair. Thomas pauses and slides out his phone, probably calling for his car to be brought around, and Gil just about catches the incredibly brief moment after he hangs up where he kisses the top of Alexander’s head, quick as a flash, so small that Gil almost thinks he imagines it.

They disappear soon enough and Gil is left to continue talking to boring people about boring subjects until he can call it a reasonable enough time to leg it out of there. He restrains from looking at his watch, that would be rude, and thinks about texting Hercules.

He decides turning up at his door with a bottle of champagne is preferable, and so that’s exactly what he does, just this side of tipsy and grinning unabashed at Hercules’ confused face.

“Come inside,” Hercules says eventually, gesturing for Gil to slide past him. Gil deliberately presses himself up against Hercules’ body, feels rather than hears the hitch in Hercules’ breath, and smiles to himself.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave feedback or you're a dick :)


	3. thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Relax for a second, Hamilton, it’ll probably do you some good.”  
> “Do me some good,” Hamilton repeats, “To kiss you. It’ll do me some good to kiss you,” he says, like he doesn’t understand the words.  
> “Yes,” Thomas confirms, and then waits, his finger still under Hamilton’s chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [quick note: watch [this short animated video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xp22IYL2uU) before you read, it's only 3 minutes long and it's cute as heck + will help you a lil bit for some things i talk about in this chapter]

Thomas wakes up with an uncomfortable crick in his neck, a wine stain in his $250 shirt, and Hamilton passed out on his chest. He blinks sleepily, eyes barely being able to focus in the half-dark morning and haze of the slightly drunken stupor he’s apparently still suffering through, as he tries to calibrate his feelings.

  1. Surprise that Hamilton is asleep on top of him. Like, what the fuck, doesn’t the guy have somewhere else he could’ve slept? What the fuck’s he doing draping himself over Thomas like they’re touchy-feely friends when really they’re barely able to be in the same room as each other without squabbling pettily and, the wine stain on his shirt standing as evidence, throwing drinks over one another? Which leads nicely into:
  2. Bewilderment. Why is he on the couch on the first place and, again, why the fuck is Hamilton sleeping on top of him?
  3. Pain. His head hurts and his neck and toes are all cramped up from being squished up on this small couch and, hello, yet again, Hamilton has taken it upon himself to drape himself all over Thomas, restricting blood flow to his arm and making it unpleasantly numb. There’s something sharp digging into his hip and all his joints feel stiff and locked up in a way he knows is going to make his bones crack and pop when he stands up.
  4. Which brings him right back around to: surprise. Hamilton is… Warm, and soft, and breathing deep and steady, a strangely comforting noise. He’s a nice weight on top of him, curled up with his head on Thomas’ chest, and sure, he’s kinda drooling maybe a little bit, but it’s not as gross as Thomas would have previously thought. He’s a tactile person, likes to cuddle up to his friends, and Hamilton may not be his friend but he finds himself thinking that it’s nice all the same.



The thing digging into his hip turns out to be his phone, because while Hamilton is wearing pyjamas- some striped pants and a soft blue shirt- he’s still in his jeans and stained shirt and it’s uncomfortable as hell. He manages to slide his phone out of his pocket, taking care to not jostle Hamilton, which is something he doesn’t want to think about right now. Hamilton shifts and sighs anyway, inadvertently freeing Thomas’ trapped arm, and he wiggles the feeling back into his fingers before placing his palm on Hamilton’s back, stopping him from rolling off the couch and onto the floor.

He scrolls through Twitter, squinting at the screen, and opens the News app to see if anything interesting has happened overnight. A famous journalist died, British politics has become even more fucked up, and Liam Payne has signed a solo contract. Huh. Okay then.

He switches to the messaging app, texts James: _one direction are over, i told you so_ and receives a text back ten seconds later that reads: _I fucking hate you._ He snorts and Hamilton makes a muffled noise into his chest and he lies still for a few seconds, wondering if Hamilton’s about to wake up. He doesn’t, so after a minute he sends James another text, asking him if he needs Thomas to come over and hold his hand and feed him ice cream like he did when Zayn left. _I don’t know you,_ James sends him back and he replies that he has photographic evidence. _BLOCKED,_ James texts and Thomas scoffs, smiling and shaking his head and going back to Twitter.

It usually takes him at least half an hour to wake up properly in the mornings, so he’s gotten into the habit of setting his alarm an hour and a half before he needs to be anywhere to allow himself time to be sluggish and barely awake, drifting back into sleep and out again, fiddling with his phone brightness settings so it doesn’t hurt his eyes so much. Today he has nowhere to be, and he’s quite comfortable, Hamilton pressed up warmly against his side and breathing softly against his chest, so he allows himself to relax completely and indulge in the quiet of the small hours.

He’s rudely interrupted by Mulligan stumbling out of his room as the sunlight inches its pale fingers across the floor, rubbing at his eyes and heading blindly for the kitchen. He stops midway through the living room, perilously close to shoving his foot in a discarded bowl of cheese puffs, and blinks at Thomas on the couch. And Hamilton too, he supposes, and deliberately adopts a blank facial expression so as not to give away his own feelings about the matter.

“Hey,” Mulligan says in a rough voice, looking a bit shocked and dazed.

Thomas stares at him for a second, anxiety pulling at his chest at the thought of Mulligan confronting him about this, but the man merely nods reassuringly and so Thomas says hey back before firmly switching his gaze to his phone and not looking as Mulligan pauses for another second before going back to stumbling across the living room.

He’s stiff, tensed up, and Hamilton can apparently tell even in sleep because he makes a grumbling noise and kicks Thomas in the shin. Thomas, completely unable to help himself, kicks right back. Hamilton goes flying off the couch and lands with a thud on the floor. He makes a noise like a dog when you accidentally stand on their tail as he goes down and Thomas worries for a split second before Hamilton props himself up, eyes bleary and unfocused, scowl set on his face, his hair a mess, and starts going through the process of getting his limbs to cooperate long enough to climb back onto the sofa.

He hears Mulligan start to make his way back to Gil’s room from the kitchen as he’s watching Hamilton flail about, and he very carefully does not acknowledge his presence. Hamilton manages to get his body functioning enough to haul himself back onto the couch and, instead of curling up at the other end of the couch like Thomas expects him to, he flops on top of Thomas and burrows himself between the back couch cushions and Thomas’ body, meaning that now Thomas is the one in danger of falling onto the floor.

He makes a sleepy noise, his pink mouth stretching into a tiny yawn, and shoves his face into Thomas’ neck, breathing hot across his throat. Thomas freezes for long seconds, feeling Hamilton mould himself around his body, and then slowly slides his hand into Hamilton’s hair, holding him close. Hamilton rubs his nose into the base of Thomas’ throat and sighs. Thomas hopes to every deity above that Mulligan didn’t just see that.

Hamilton seems to fall back into sleep instantly, eyelashes dark and fluttering against the tops of his cheeks as Thomas watches him, and he decides to just give up entirely and stop thinking about it, following Hamilton into sleep between one breath and the next.

His phone tells him he’s been asleep for forty minutes when he peels his eyes open again, groggy and thick and lethargic, feeling like it was a huge mistake to take a nap. His throat feels very dry and Hamilton’s a wall of heat plastered up against him, his limbs curled around Thomas’ body like a vice, breathing hot against Thomas’ skin. Thomas’ hand is still in his hair and his wrist has cramped up a little so he shakes it out and drags his palm down Hamilton’s body, settling it at the small of his back. Hamilton hums, shifts his hips forward, and Thomas’ eyebrows fly up when he feels the hard length of Hamilton’s dick press up against his thigh.

“What the fuck,” he says out loud, blinking at the ceiling. Hamilton’s _hard,_ his _dick_ is _touching_ Thomas, it’s hot and hard and just a tiny bit wet, the tip sticking to his pyjama pants and Thomas can _feel_ it on his jeans.

He presses the palm of his hand harder against Hamilton’s back, just to see what he’ll do, and Hamilton twitches his hips forward and rubs his dick against Thomas’ thigh, sighs a little against Thomas’ throat.

“Oh my God,” Thomas says, strangled.

“Shut up,” Hamilton groans, sounding barely coherent.

“You’re _hard,_ ” Thomas says. He can hardly wrap his mind around it. _You could wrap your hand around it,_ his brain whispers, and he chalks it up to being only just awake.

“I’m _asleep,_ ” Hamilton grits out and Thomas laughs, a little hysterically. He moves his hand back up and tugs on Hamilton’s hair, pulling his face away from where it’s buried in Thomas’ throat, and Hamilton squints at him with sleepy eyes, big and inky black.

“What,” he says flatly.

“You’re _hard,_ ” he repeats and Hamilton goes still.

“I’m-” he starts and then he yelps, moves his hips away, but there’s nowhere for him to go so it just creates friction on his dick and he ends up moaning breathily. Thomas laughs, even more hysterically.

“I’m hard, what the fuck, what the fuck for, I’m _touching you,_ oh my God, this is the worst moment of my life,” he screws his eyes up and whimpers. “Are you ever gonna let me forget this?”

“You might have to bribe me,” Thomas says gleefully. Hamilton buries his face in Thomas’ shoulder, seemingly choosing to ignore that he’s touching Thomas in order to hide away in his shame.

“I wonder what I could ask for…” Thomas muses, pretending that he’s going to hold this over Hamilton’s head for the rest of his life, whereas in reality he sort of wants to use the feeling of Hamilton pressed up against him to get off and then scrub his brain clean with bleach in order to forget that the whole thing ever happened.

Hamilton groans and says, “I could get you off,” and Thomas almost chokes on his own spit.

“ _What?_ ” he yelps and Hamilton huffs.

“It was just a _suggestion,_ and don’t pretend like you haven’t been half hard for the past five minutes.”

Thomas shifts, self conscious, and when Hamilton chuckles it sounds mocking.

“I know you hate me, Hamilton, but I’m not the kind of guy who extorts sex out of people, I’m not _that_ terrible,” he grits out.

Hamilton is quiet for a moment and Thomas grinds his teeth together, trying to ignore the heat of Hamilton against him and his own dick’s ridiculous interest.

“It’s not sexual extortion, it’s me offering a mutual orgasm rather than me slinking off to jerk off in the bathroom. The mutual orgasm thing is less embarrassing, really, I’m just trying to… Even the playing fields.”

“Even the playing fields,” Thomas repeats slowly.

“Right,” Hamilton says, “I’m hard, you’re most of the way there, I have hands, let me use them.”

Thomas blinks at the ceiling. Hamilton’s hair is soft under his fingers, and his dick is _really_ taking an interest at the thought of Hamilton’s hands on him, so he swallows hard and sends a short prayer up to whoever’s listening that this isn’t going to bite him in the ass, and gives in.

“Fine,” he mumbles, and half a second later Hamilton’s undoing his jeans and shoving his hand in, curling his fingers around Thomas’ cock.

Thomas groans, a strange sort of gasp that he tries to cut off, because Hamilton’s hands are small and he’s got callouses on his fingers that he can only imagine are from gripping a pen so tightly all the time, but his palms are soft and he’s touching Thomas’ cock like he’s trying to map it out, curious and searching, inadvertently teasing. He swipes his thumb over the tip of Thomas’ cock, where he’s leaking already, and hums.

“You’re big,” Hamilton says and Thomas feels a sudden flash of irritation. He doesn’t want to think too hard about it being _Hamilton_ who’s dragging his palm up and down his length slowly, exactly the way Thomas likes it like he _knows,_ somehow, instinctively that Thomas likes to take his time.

“Gee, Hamilton, tell me something I don’t already know,” he drawls and Hamilton huffs, tightens his fist. Thomas bucks up into it and leaks a little bit more.

“Alexander,” Hamilton corrects, and Thomas glances down to look at him. Hamilton’s got his eyes fixed on Thomas’ cock slipping through his fist, the tip of it visible where his jeans have been shoved open. Thomas chooses not to answer, doesn’t want to open his mouth and have Hamilton’s first name slip out, an intimacy he’s not open to right now, or maybe ever.

Hamilton’s still hard against his thigh, lying awkwardly between the back of the couch and Thomas’ body, and he’s rocking his hips twice as fast as his hand is working on Thomas’ cock, and Thomas breathes and groans and thinks about how nice it would be to be kissed right now.

Before he can think properly about it he’s hauling Hamilton up and on top of him, pushing his thigh up between Hamilton’s legs to give him something to rub against and capturing Hamilton’s mouth in a kiss that seems to shock him. His mouth stays open and unresponsive for a little bit and Thomas tries to ignore the anxiety bundling up inside of his chest that this was the wrong move, that he shouldn’t have done this, but then Hamilton makes a tiny moaning noise and kisses back, rocks his hips forward and slips his tongue into Thomas’ mouth.

It’s hot and wet and slow, their kiss, their first kiss, and Hamilton keeps on making those little noises that make Thomas’ stomach twist and his toes curl up. Turns out Hamilton can never shut up, not even during sex, which shouldn’t surprise him, really. He sucks on Hamilton’s bottom lip, slides his hands down his ribs and hips and up under his shirt, feeling his skin, soft and still warm from sleep.

Hamilton groans and starts to speed up his hand but Thomas grabs his wrist and makes him slow down again. He likes it long and drawn out, likes to feel every single nerve stand up straight with arousal, likes to get closer and closer and closer to the edge until he can barely stand it anymore and then slow down even further, drive himself crazy with it. He knows the payoff will be so good, and that’s just with his own hand. This is _Hamilton,_ which strangely makes it even better: Hamilton’s small hands on him and his moans spilling into Thomas’ mouth, lips soft, his hips twitching against Thomas’ thigh as he works himself towards his own climax.

Thomas sighs, keeps on kissing Hamilton, wanting him to carry on making those addictive noises. Little moans and sighs and whimpers and Thomas focuses on drawing them out, curling his tongue, kissing Hamilton deep and slow and moving his hands down to palm Hamilton’s ass as he does so. Hamilton groans, grinds down on Thomas’ thigh, pulls his lips back to breathe _fuck_ across Thomas’ lips, and Thomas pulls him back down with a firm hand in his hair and shuts him up, as well as he can, with lips and teeth and tongue.

Hamilton’s fist tightens and Thomas can’t find it within him to get him to slow down again, just lets him speed up and rub his thumb over the head of his cock with every pass, spreading out the fluid Thomas is spilling everywhere, betraying how turned on he is right now. Hamilton is close, so close, pressing his weight down on top of him and Thomas, irrationally, wants him closer, wants to reel him in and keep him. It’s hot, sharing the same air as Hamilton, his lungs weak with it, and Thomas tightens his hands in Hamilton’s hair and on his ass and bucks his hips up, pushing himself through Hamilton’s fist and thrusting his thigh against Hamilton’s dick, trying to get him to come. He wants to _see_ it, wants to hear it and taste it and feel every second of it, wants Hamilton to come fast and hard and all over him.

Hamilton’s hand gets sloppier the faster he jerks Thomas off but it’s still good, his mouth is still soft and wet, his body is warm and heavy and Thomas’ cock twitches every time Hamilton twists his wrist and he groans, indecent, bites Hamilton’s lip and comes all over his fingers. He bites down the urge to moan Hamilton’s name, _Alexander,_ and breathes through the waves of his orgasm as Hamilton continues to pull him through his fist slowly, slick with his own come, until Thomas groans and pushes his hand away.

Hamilton whimpers but Thomas has no intention of leaving him high and dry, hauls him up and slides one hand down the back of Hamilton’s pyjama pants, grips his ass, the fleshy softness of it, and sucks Hamilton’s bottom lip into his mouth again. Hamilton makes a strangled noise, and Thomas shoves his other hand down his pyjama pants and pulls Hamilton’s cheeks apart, massages the globes of his ass, squeezes and pinches and pushes down until Hamilton’s grinding against his thigh again.

Hamilton’s whimpers and his moans get higher as he gets closer to the edge, his hips jerking inelegantly, and Thomas encourages it, whispers, _yes, come on, sweetheart, that’s it,_ and Hamilton gasps. Thomas can feel the wetness of his come spread across his thigh. Hamilton keeps rocking his hips, well past what Thomas would say was the average length of an orgasm, and he’s pleasantly surprised that Hamilton apparently gets off on oversensitivity. He urges Hamilton on, pushing his thigh up and squeezing his ass, and Hamilton sobs into his mouth.

“Darlin’,” Thomas breathes, reeling a little from how good that was, from how good _Hamilton_ was, the pet name slipping out before he can stop himself. Hamilton pulls away, lips red and wet and swollen, and flops onto Thomas’ chest, groaning. Thomas slides his hands out of Hamilton’s pants, grudging and reluctant to let go, but he takes the opportunity to stretch out his arms and legs and arch his back up a little, his spine popping in a satisfying way. He feels loose and relaxed and lazy and it’s a wonderful way to greet the day.

Hamilton shoves himself up, elbows sharp into Thomas’ ribs, and Thomas wrinkles up his nose but can’t find it within himself to glare at him as he usually would.

“Your hair looks ridiculous,” Hamilton says eventually, and Thomas takes great pleasure in pushing him off the couch on purpose this time, grinning at the cry of surprise Hamilton makes as he goes down and hits the floor with a thud.

.

Getting paired with Hamilton for the final project of the semester is… Unexpected.

He’s been spending so much time trying not to think about him and that morning that he’s actually ended up spending _all_ his time thinking about him and that morning and he’s pretty sure he’s driving poor James crazy with it. He usually pays attention in class, especially since this one is Washington’s and he, oddly, wants to make the man proud and actually put effort in, but today he’s trying so incredibly hard not to stare at the back of Hamilton’s head that his eyes have gone a bit crossed and blurry and his ears have stopped filtering in sound, so when Hamilton whips his head around to stare at him, nostrils flared and eyebrows furrowed together angrily, he’s actually a bit taken aback.

The class ends then, Washington dismissing them all, and Thomas feels a little out of the loop as people pair off and exit the lecture hall together. Hamilton’s angrily stuffing his notebooks in his bag, a ratty thing that looks like it’s barely holding together, and Thomas narrows his eyes and debates whether it would be wise to approach him or not.

He doesn’t need to decide when he’s halfway down the stairs and Hamilton grabs his elbow.

“What the fuck,” he hisses, “You’re not even gonna say anything?”

Thomas’ brain stutters for a second and he thinks, _here? Now? Hamilton wants to talk about jerking him off with all these people around?_ and he feels the claws of anxiety and embarrassment creep up and around his throat.

Hamilton’s tapping his foot on the floor and clenching his jaw, staring up at him mutinously, every part of him vibrating with an energy so negative that it’s pouring off him in waves and Thomas actually leans back a little.

“You’re really not gonna say anything,” Hamilton says flatly. Thomas can’t find his voice, feels a little trapped, cornered, and Hamilton just keeps _staring_ at him with his dark eyes, almost black, so intense that Thomas has to look away.

“I’m not letting Washington get away with this, okay, I need you to back me up,” Hamilton continues and Thomas snaps back to him, confused.

“Huh?” he says eloquently.

“Washington thinks he’s being sneaky, pairing us together, as if we’ll forget all about our animosity and everything will be hunky dory, but he’s _wrong,_ I _like_ our animosity, and I’ll be damned if Washington takes that away from me.” He looks a little manic, his eyes gleaming, and Thomas trails after him curiously.

Washington sighs at them both like he’s expecting it and Thomas lets Hamilton run his mouth until he gathers enough information to get angry too. Turns out Washington’s assigned them to work together for the last six weeks of the semester, which would be enough to make Thomas want to leap across the table and strangle him on any day, but _especially_ after he and Hamilton did that… _Thing_ and now everything’s weird and new and he feels thrown off kilter, like he doesn’t know how to stand without his knees buckling.

Washington says no a grand total of seven times while he and Hamilton barrage him with protests and they walk out with nothing different, six weeks of spending time with Hamilton yawning in front of him like some giant canyon he’s in danger of falling in head first.

“Well,” Hamilton huffs, “We’ll just have to… Push through it. We only really have to meet once a week in person, I’m more than capable of doing my share of the work alone, and I hope to God you’re capable of doing yours because I’m not doing it for you, I don’t want to have to look at your face too much, it’s very… Face-y, which is gross, because it’s your face, and I hate your face, why do you even have a face, you don’t deserve a face like the rest of us humans since you’re the devil incarnate and everything, I mean-”

“-You’re babbling,” Thomas interjects, staring at him flatly. Hamilton swallows, avoids his eyes, and Thomas feels something foreign roll in his stomach.

“Stop being weird,” he says, for lack of anything else to say. “Pick a day and a place to meet up and we’ll try to get through it with as little _facial_ contact as possible,” he continues and only realises afterwards that _facial contact_ could easily be interpreted as _kissing._ He coughs, feeling heat creep up his neck, and stares somewhere left of Hamilton’s shoulder rather than at his face, or worse, into his eyes.

Hamilton makes a noise, a strange sort of chirp that sounds odd, and stalks off. Thomas blinks, sighs, and goes to find James, intent on draping himself all over him and exuding his misery through his pores rather than opening his mouth and annoying James with his voice. He knows he’ll annoy James anyway just by being there, but James signed up for it when he gave in to Thomas’ heavy handed advances at friendship, though he lasted a damn sight longer than everyone else before he crumbled.

Thomas is proud of him, knows he picked a good one to label his best friend, because James held out for so long against him. It shows strength of character, and it was worth it, because James is loyal and indulges Thomas and lets him whine and cry and try new recipes that inevitably end with the kitchen in shambles, sauce on the floor and both their clothes and, most distressingly, in Thomas’ hair.

James only grunts when Thomas burrows his way under his arm as he studies in the library, letting Thomas maneuver him until he can read the book James is concentrating on. It’s some dry tome about agriculture and Thomas makes a disgusted noise, immature and crude. James tugs on his hair without looking at him, a reprimand and reminder to shut the fuck up, and Thomas whines and pouts into his shoulder until James starts to pack up his things and shoves Thomas away.

“What are you whining about now,” he says when they push through the library door and the spell of silence is broken.

“Hamilton,” Thomas grumbles and he can _feel_ James roll his eyes.

“Why am I not surprised,” he murmurs and heads across campus with a purposeful stride.

Thomas trots after him, used to following James around. It’s odd to him that people think he’s the mastermind of their relationship, as if he’s in charge, when really it’s James who makes practically all of the decisions. Thomas can think for himself and think well: he’s smart and quick and absorbs information like a sponge, but James has plans and direction and Thomas doesn’t really have either, so it’s easy to just follow James wherever he goes and trust him, instinctively, to show Thomas the way.

“I’m gonna have to spend a bunch of _time_ with him,” he whines, dragging out his drawl, letting his accent get thicker as it always does around James.

“You’ve known him for nearly five years.”

“Five years too long,” he grumbles and James scoffs, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

“You two have this routine where you glare at each other and fight about every little thing, and everything you fight about these days is _little_ because you’ve already fought about all the big things, and so instead of it being a rivalry like you both seem to still believe it is it’s actually more like a marriage, old and comfortable and worn in, and both of you keep on pretending you like hate each other when you don’t and you always inevitably end up complaining about it to me, which gets tiring, really, so, essentially, I’m telling you to put up or shut up,” he says, and glares.

Thomas blinks at him. “I think that’s the longest sentence you’ve ever said,” he says dumbly and James rolls his eyes again and abandons him to get a hot pretzel. Thomas jogs after him, pays the vendor before James can take out his wallet in a silent apology for being so annoying, and James pulls off a piece and shoves it in Thomas’ mouth.

“I’m preemptively shutting you up,” he says and Thomas just grins and nods and swallows the greasy food, linking his arm with James and poking him in the side until James relaxes enough to be persuaded to take a stroll in the park.

Hamilton texts him just as Thomas is trying to catch a Lickitung on Pokémon Go and the notification screws up the arc of his Pokéball, giving the Lickitung the opportunity to run away before Thomas manages to capture it.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath and angrily switches out the app to see Hamilton’s text.

 _Tuesday, 3:00pm, at the Yorktown,_ he’s sent and Thomas sighs dramatically, a great gust of breath. James shoots him a funny look and goes back to throwing Pokéballs at a high XP Electabuzz instead of asking.

 _Fine,_ he texts, _Make sure you come prepared,_ and Hamilton shoots back _YOU come prepared,_ like he’s twelve years old and that passes as a good comeback. Thomas swipes out of the app with a short jab of his finger, stabbing his screen pettily, and goes back to trying to catch Pokémon.

“How come you always get the good ones,” he grumbles, watching James successfully capture a Magma and staring forlornly at his own screen which is filled with Pidgey’s and Rattata’s.

“It’s because I’m better than you,” James says and Thomas sticks his foot out, intent on tripping him up, but James steps over it without even looking.

“Witchcraft,” Thomas hisses and James waggles his fingers at him. Thomas flinches away, raising his fingers in a cross and baring his teeth.

“Stay away from me, witch,” he declares and James jumps at him, laughing loudly when Thomas yells and runs off down the path.

James is too sensible to run after him so Thomas dawdles and attempts to catch a Fearow that pops up. He’s thrown five Pokéballs and fed the thing two Razz Berries by the time James reaches him, and James takes the phone from his hand and catches it in one try.

“That’s seriously not fair,” Thomas says, shaking his head, and James hands the phone back.

“Be glad that I’m with you rather than against you,” he says and Thomas grins at him.

“I’m always glad that you’re with me,” he says grandly and James pushes at his arm, but there’s a small smile playing around the edges of his mouth that makes the long, long hours of wearing him down, convincing him to be his friend, absolutely worth it.

.

He practices what he's going to say at his and Hamilton’s meeting over and over, paces up and down the apartment muttering under his breath, going over what he wants to say word for word until it sounds natural and unrehearsed. James watches him and pretends he isn’t, averts his eyes every time Thomas spins around to stare accusingly at him, but Thomas doesn't mind, not really. James has seen him like this too many times for him to feel embarrassed by it at all.

His anxiety snaps its jaws at him, stalking him, circling ever closer. He repeats his words over and over again, praying that Hamilton won’t go off track, won’t find a tangent and race off down it, but that prayer has never been answered in the past so he won’t be surprised when it isn’t now either. Hamilton is utterly incapable of having a passing thought and not talking it to death: he gets distracted easily, goes off on rants and tirades for long, long minutes until he circles back around to his original point, if he remembers the original point at all; it’s long, long minutes that Thomas sits perched on the edge of his seat, heart jack-rabbit fast, waiting for his anxiety to take a bite out of him.

He discovered early on in their rivalry, however, that when Hamilton gets caught up in the trains of thought that hurtle in and out of his brain station that he, himself, gets caught up in Hamilton, and his anxiety slinks into the backseat, the crocodile lurking in the dark waters with wary eyes, and he gets a chance to just _talk_ without _thinking._ For once in his pathetic, nerve-riddled life, he has the opportunity to say what he wants, whatever comes to mind, without having to worry about stuttering or tripping over his words, no fear that he’ll forget and space out, no agonizing that his brain will freeze and he’ll be unable to finish the goddamn sentence. Hamilton speaks and Thomas becomes so engrossed in it that the crocodile becomes lost, Thomas can fight it off for a little bit, can finally be free.

It’s nice, that brief reprieve. It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t worry beforehand though, isn’t seized in panic that Hamilton will say something that’ll throw him off, that he’ll freeze up and his anxiety will _snap_ like a snare, and he’ll make a fool of himself. James has seen him get caught in that abyss more times than he’s comfortable with, and he couldn’t stand it if Hamilton saw that too.

So he practices all the words of what he wants to say in their specific order and hopes to God that Hamilton doesn’t open his mouth and ruin things. He wants to get in and out, to trade ideas and then leave as fast as possible, doesn’t want to give the crocodile the chance to creep out and devour him whole. His anxiety added on top of whatever _thing_ he and Hamilton have accidentally stumbled into is enough to make him feel choked, air thin in his lungs, hands shaking, and he couldn’t live with himself if Hamilton saw him like that. No; one too many people have seen him in the midst of suffering, he couldn’t stand it if Hamilton saw it too.

He turns up to their meeting with a faux air of authority, breezes in the door and strips off the gloves that he doesn’t really need to wear considering it’s summer, but he likes the supple leather, the way it hugs his palm, how soft it feels against his skin. Hamilton’s waiting for him already at a table, a coffee mug as big as his head in front of him and another of a more decent size waiting at the other end of the table. Thomas is pleasantly surprised, knows that Hamilton knows his coffee order after inadvertently bumping into each other for the past five years whilst holding coffee cups, jittery and caffeinated after long all nighters in the library, bleary eyed and stumbling at early morning lectures, giving into their cravings at all hours of the day and crossing paths four times out of five.

Hamilton immediately veers off topic as soon as he opens his mouth and Thomas sits, stiff as a board, for a split second, the crocodile stalking him, teeth sharp, before his brain kicks into gear and outpaces his anxiety, raising his voice and snapping back at Hamilton until they’re hissing and spitting at each other from across the table, people un-subtly shifting away from them as they cause a commotion.

He scrapes his chair back, sparking and angry and bubbling with frustration, he and Hamilton butting heads at every turn even though they’re supposed to be working _together._ Years of debate have finely tuned their argumentative natures, so much so that they find it irresistible, even though Thomas feels more fragile this time, in the wake of their… _thing,_ and his anger feels quicker to rise to the surface.

Hamilton seems surprised when Thomas gets up to leave, fuming. His hand whips out and grabs his wrist, grip tight, squeezing his bones together, and Thomas is yanked backwards against his will.

“We’re not done here,” Hamilton hisses, sharp.

“Well, _I’m_ done,” Thomas snaps back, weak, all his energy sapped out of him with the feel of Hamilton’s fingers wrapped around his wrist.

He pulls out of his hold, stalks out of the coffee shop, running on adrenaline and nerves and _fear,_ because he can _feel_ the jaws of his anxiety closing around him in a steel trap, making his breath quicken, his pulse hammer in his veins. Everything seems sort of blurry so he heads in a direction that’s familiar, towards the park, needs the green and the flowers and the trees that remind him of the rolling fields of Monticello, of _home,_ of sitting under the old tulip poplar with a book and breathing the thick Southern air, no worries and no anxiety and no _Hamilton._

He catches four Zubats, bumps into a kid who shows him where a Clefairy’s hiding out, and grabs a cinnamon bagel to munch on, sticky fingers not working so well to throw Pokéballs. He pulls a face and makes his way back to his apartment, licking his fingers, and it’s only then that he realises he left his gloves at the café. He shrugs, veers off to the nearest Burberry store and buys another pair, a deep earthy brown colour and achingly soft, and he savours the slide against his fingers and palm as he pulls them on.

James takes one look at him and immediately gets up and leaves, and Thomas slumps, drained, and exiles himself to the bed. It’s piled high with soft comforters and pillows, all different fabrics and colours, and he flops on top of them and wiggles around until he's cocooned in a nest of safety and warmth. It restores his strength somewhat, and James comes back eventually and perches himself at the end of the bed, far away from Thomas’ mound of pillows, and reads quietly while Thomas mopes.

He tries to ignore Hamilton as best as he can during lectures, to Hamilton’s obvious annoyance. His jaw clenches in a way that looks painful and his fingers twist in his shirts until they turn white, and Thomas does his best not to notice, not to feel the low simmering regret when he sees what his blankness does to Hamilton. He knows Hamilton thrives off attention, wants people to look at him, to listen to him, at all times, and to lose an audience that in the past has always been dependable is probably driving him insane. Thomas feels kind of bad, but he also feels the hot breath of the crocodile on his throat, it’s sharp teeth hovering over his jugular, and he knows that if Hamilton has the chance to approach him then his anxiety will close around him, trap him, and all logical thought will be lost to irrational fear.

His usual charade of arrogance and ease feels particularly fragile these days, like one touch will make it shatter. He remembers Hamilton’s grip on his wrist, fingers squeezing his bones together, and shivers.

His disguise is apparently enough to trick some people into thinking his confidence is anything but drowning in the murky waters because Hamilton comes storming into his private - emphasis on _private_ \- study room in the library, red faced, his cheeks puffed out, every part of him vibrating.

“What the hell is wrong with you, why have you been ignoring me all week, we’re supposed to be working _together,_ ” he spits. Thomas holds up his hands.

“I thought the plan was for you to do your part and I would do mine and that way you’d not have to look at my face,” he quips, trying to squash down the panic in his throat. This was supposed to be _his space,_ a room he’d booked to be by himself, and Hamilton’s forced himself in and doesn’t look like he’s going to leave any time soon.

“It’s a _partnered project,_ we’re supposed to work _together,_ I get that you’re all embarrassed or whatever after that,” he makes an obscene gesture with his hand that has Thomas wincing, “Thing that happened last week but it shouldn’t be getting in the way of us being able to complete this project.”

“The only thing getting in the way of me completing this project is _you,_ ” Thomas snaps, jabbing his finger at him. “Get out! This is a private room, you’re not invited, I know that you have a hard time respecting other people’s boundaries but the closed door should have been warning enough that I don’t want you here.”

“So we’re just not going to work together at all, then,” Hamilton gapes. The flush on his cheeks has settled down to a sweet pink, sort of blotchy, and Thomas has the urge to press his fingers there and feel the heat on his skin.

He shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets to stop any stupid thing he might do. “I’ll email you,” he says simply.

“Fine,” Hamilton says, smug. “Expect a ten page email in your inbox within the next two hours, I hope you have _fun_ looking for the actual points in amongst the useless facts I’m going to pad it all with.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, endlessly exasperated at how immature this man can be. “For fucks sake, Hamilton, don’t be such an asshole, work with me here.”

“You’re the one being an asshole, I’m just trying to even the playing fields.”

Thomas feels something hot zip through him at that phrase. Hamilton said that _before,_ said that in a sleepy voice with his body pressed up against Thomas, hot and needy, and Thomas feels uncomfortably choked with the memory of it.

He rubs his hand over his face, sitting heavily in the chair at the small desk in the room. Hamilton hovers, tapping his foot, and Thomas feels the will to keep up the charade wilt from his body. He kicks out the second chair, gestures lazily for Hamilton to sit, and resigns himself to an afternoon of company rather than solitude.

“Let’s just do it now then, no better time than the present,” he drawls and Hamilton stares at the seat Thomas is offering him in mild alarm. “Come on,” he says, “Chop chop, Hamilton, I don’t got all day. You gonna stand there like a moron or are we gonna get on with this.”

Hamilton gapes at him for a moment longer before angrily sitting down, or as angrily as one can sit down, and starts viciously pulling out his notebooks, bending some of the pages in his force. Thomas watches him, amused, as he mutters under his breath about Thomas _stealing his high ground_ and tries not to laugh.

They get to work. When it comes down to it, he and Hamilton are of a similar mind: they both have motivation, drive, to get things done and to their best abilities. Never overlook anything, explore every avenue, leave nothing unturned. They switch easily between defence and prosecution, bouncing off each other, finding each other’s weakness and going after it doggedly until they find a solution. It’s incredibly satisfying to spark off of Hamilton like this. The only other people he can do this with is James and Angelica, and even then he and James tend to hold the same opinions and Angelica can nearly never be bothered to put up with Thomas when he gets in his stride.

Their voices become raised, as they always do, even though they’re sat less than a foot away from each other. Thomas wonders for a second if they’re disturbing anybody outside but then Hamilton says something incredibly stupid and he gets drawn into the argument all over again. The crocodile of his anxiety has been shaken off for a short while, sits curled in the corner watching them, but doesn’t retreat entirely. Being around Hamilton seems to always make him feel anxious, mainly because the man is so unpredictable; the awareness of him prickles up his spine, makes him shiver. It’s probably stupid of him to place himself on the law career path when something like becoming an architect would be far more sensible, because God knows a courtroom can be unpredictable, and if _Hamilton_ gets him this worked up then he’s not really sure what he’s going to do once he’s a certified lawyer. He’ll figure it out when the time comes, though, he always does. Nothing challenges him as much as the law does; no one challenges him as much as Hamilton does.

“I’m telling you, if we go down this route it’ll impress Washington-”

“It’s too much of a risk,” Thomas shoots at him, glaring. Hamilton puffs out his chest.

“I’m good with risks, they almost always work out for me-”

Thomas snorts. “ _Almost always_ is not enough to convince me to allow you to go ahead with this harebrained scheme.”

“Would you let me finish my sentences, just once? Jesus, you act like you’ve never done anything risky in your life,” Hamilton huffs, curling his hands into fists on top of the table. Thomas leans back in his chair, spreads out, lazy. Hamilton looks like he’s wound tighter than a box spring, back pin straight, every muscle tensed up, rather than relax at all. Maybe he likes it, the pain, maybe it keeps him sharp, Thomas doesn’t know. Isn’t going to ask, because that would be weird.

“I am a sensible and stable functioning adult,” he says instead, “I don’t take risks.”

Hamilton snorts, a massive sound that moves his whole body with the force of it. Thomas grimaces and leans away, mildly disgusted by Hamilton’s lack of decorum.

“What do you call getting off with me on our friend’s couch at eight A.M., then? Was that a sensible and stable decision that a functioning adult would make?” he challenges and Thomas stares at him in horror. “I’m pretty sure that classifies as a risky endeavour, and, besides, I’ve seen you take tonnes of risks in the past. We’ll be in the middle of a conversation and you’ll get this funny look on your face and suddenly you’ll be saying stuff that sounds risky even to me. Don’t lie and say you never take risks, I thought you respected me enough not to blatantly lie to my face.”

Thomas swallows, throat thick. He wants to say, _that’s my anxiety, that’s my panic, I say stupid stuff because I’m scared,_ but can’t get the words out. Hamilton leans back, smug, like he’s won something here. Thomas won’t let him, refuses to let him, think he’s won.

“We’re not doing it,” he says lowly, forcefully, almost a growl. Hamilton blinks at him.

“Yes, we are.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes, we _are,_ and if you’re going to contest it then I want to have an actual debate,” Hamilton whines.

Thomas takes a deep breath. “I’m not talking about this further, a no’s a no.”

“ _You’re_ not talking about it?” Hamilton gawks at him. “Well fine,” he says childishly, crossing his arms, “If you’re not going to talk then I am, until it annoys you enough that you’ll have to give in. Firstly-”

Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose, listening to Hamilton lay out all his ridiculous points like it’s an actual argument in a court of law. He has to hand it to him, he’s incredibly verbose and more than a little convincing: Hamilton has perfected the art of duping the average listener into thinking his way is the best way with flowery imagery and passionate language backed up by a breadth of knowledge that would impress even him, which is impressive in itself because Thomas reads books, books about anything and everything, like they’re going out of style. There’s giant stacks and piles of books in his apartment and James’ that adhere to his complicated system of what genre they are, how far through them he is, and whether or not he’s enjoying them. He and Hamilton have probably read a lot of the same books; in fact, if the library system was what it used to be in Thomas’ early youth, many of the front of the books would be stamped with both of their names, one after another, as they both checked out the books and failed to return them on time.

As always, Hamilton veers off path and chases himself down a complicated tangent that has nothing to do with the original subject, merely because he has knowledge of it rattling around in his brain and is incapable of ignoring the urge to talk it to death. Thomas suspects Hamilton’s trying to make his tangents as ridiculous as possible in order to annoy him all the more, and even if he’s not he’s certainly doing an admirable job of rubbing him the wrong way. Rubbing him the _right_ way, however…

He gazes at Hamilton, watches his mouth move. It’s a pretty pink colour, almost red, soft and pouty. Thomas _knows_ his mouth is soft, has put his lips there and felt it himself, has had Hamilton’s mouth move with his and it had been… Well, it had been good. Thomas had liked it. Knows he would like it now, too, and also knows it would shut Hamilton up, so before he knows what he’s doing or his crocodile has a chance to strangle him to death, he’s leaning forward and capturing Hamilton’s lips mid-word, cutting him off with a kiss.

Hamilton flails for a second, obviously shocked, and Thomas gently tries to coax him into kissing back, moving his lips softly, reaching out and placing a finger under his chin to tip his jaw up.

“It doesn’t work if you don’t kiss back,” he mumbles against Hamilton’s lips and Hamilton pulls away, but only a few inches, and seems to sway, unsure.

“What are you doing,” he asks, sounding slightly out of breath.

“I’m trying to shut you up,” Thomas replies, agitated. The crocodile snaps at his ankles and he tries to shake it off, tries to reassure himself with the confidence he had just moments ago. “Like I said, it doesn’t work if you don’t kiss back. Relax for a second, Hamilton, it’ll probably do you some good.”

“Do me some good,” Hamilton repeats, “To kiss you. It’ll do me some good to kiss you,” he says, like he doesn’t understand the words.

“Yes,” Thomas confirms, and then waits, his finger still under Hamilton’s chin. The urge to lean forwards again pushes at him, but he waits. He wants Hamilton to _choose_ this, doesn’t want to sit and analyse this and agonise over whether or not he did something Hamilton didn’t want.

“Alexander,” Hamilton breathes.

“What?” Thomas asks, taken aback.

“Call me Alexander,” he says, and presses his lips to Thomas’.

Thomas sucks in a breath and tilts his head, angles himself so he can properly suck on Hamilton’s- _Alexander’s_ lips. He slides his tongue across Alexander’s bottom lip, flicks at the corner of his mouth, and Alexander opens up beautifully for him, a little sigh escaping for Thomas to swallow.

They kiss, slow and deep, for long minutes. Thomas takes his time exploring the inside of Alexander’s mouth, soft and wet, sliding their tongues together, drawing out little moans from him. He finds that Alexander likes it when he sucks on his tongue, groans deep and long when Thomas bites at his lip, so Thomas keeps doing it until he’s panting and gripping Thomas’ thighs, nails biting into the expensive fabric.

Thomas pulls away, looks at him with heavy eyes. Alexander looks like he’s been hit over the head, dazed and blinking, his mouth red and open and just slightly shiny. Thomas sucks his bottom lip into his mouth again, can’t resist it, just briefly, and Alexander moans, pretty and high. He lets go and ducks down, tilts Alexander’s jaw up again, and sucks right at the base of his throat, where his pulse is racing. He can feel Alexander gasp, feel his hands spasm on Thomas’ thighs, and then relocate themselves into Thomas’ hair, holding his head there.

Thomas sucks a bruise in, puts more and more pressure there until his lips sting and Alexander’s fingers are tight in his hair, his groans vibrating over Thomas’ lips. He pulls back, gazes in satisfaction at the deep red mark on his skin, capillaries that have burst under the surface all but guaranteeing a bruise that will turn purple, Thomas’ favourite colour, looking pretty against Alexander’s skin. He grins, thinking about seeing that mark for at least the next few days, and knowing that he was the one that put it there. His possessiveness curls within him, satiated, and he’s so distracted by tracing his finger over the mark that he’s caught off guard when Alexander hauls him back up and shoves his tongue into Thomas’ mouth.

He makes a muffled noise, surprised, and Alexander’s hands come to frame his face, cupping his cheeks, and Thomas is startled by how _tender_ that seems. Gentle. Delicate. He tilts his head and sighs, lets Alexander do whatever he wants, pliant now. He’s beyond happy to let Alexander kiss him deeply, become addicted to his mouth. He makes an embarrassingly high whining noise when Alexander scrapes over the roof of his mouth and Alexander hums, sounding incredibly satisfied to have gotten Thomas to produce that sound.

He’s just about to fight back, to press Alexander into the chair and take control, when there’s a knock at the door and Alexander pulls back like he’s been burned. Thomas blinks, shaken, and stares at the door.

“Are you gon’ get that?” he asks, voice sluggish and thick, his accent embarrassingly apparent.

Alexander pulls a face. “Why don’t you get it?” he shoots back. Thomas finds himself staring at his lips: they’re red and slick and swollen from Thomas’ mouth. The mark on his throat looks bright against his brown skin and Thomas can’t bring himself to look away.

“You’re closer,” he hears himself say and Alexander scoffs, jerks himself out of the chair and stomps to the door, and Thomas is left blinking at the wall.

It’s Gilbert. God knows how long he’s been standing there; he could have been standing there while and Alexander were kissing, mere feet away. Thomas stands abruptly, turns his back on the door, tenses up all over. He can’t look at Gil right now, knows that Gil would be able to tell that he feels flustered, topsy turvy, like Alexander’s reached inside him and shaken everything up.

He stares at the table. His hands are trembling. He doesn’t know how he gets through the conversation, is aware that he says something but he’s not sure what. He catches Gil’s voice calling him _Tommy,_ and tunes back in.

“I enjoyed your latest violin solo, by the way,” he says cheerfully, “See you later!”

Thomas feels his entire body still, even the tremors in his hands. Gil disappears then, Alexander too, and Thomas feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room in the wake of their departure.

The _violin solo._ He’d written it earlier in the week, in a slight haze, as a lot of his writing goes. The music produced at the end had sounded sweet and yearning, a wistful kind of sound, slow and high and a pleasure to play. James had listened to it and smiled and he’d recorded it for Gil as well, sure that his friend would want to hear it too.

He wrote it, he realises, after everything that happened with Alexander. Music notes filtering through his brain, adrenaline pumping in his veins, heart beating with… With _something,_ but he doesn’t know what. Something sweet and longing, apparently.

He sits back down, slumps in the chair. Stares at the blank wall. Tries to think.

.

Since then, Alexander has sucked his dick on a grand total of six different occasions, they’ve made out for hours on end, and he’s bruised Alexander’s neck so many times that he’s starting to look like he’s been attacked by a vampire.

It’s addictive, this new thing they’re doing, and impossible to say no to. He’s had Alexander naked and bent over the arm of his couch, eaten him out until he screamed, pulled himself off and climaxed all over Alexander’s ass and thighs and back, painting the marks he’d bitten in there with white strings of his come. Alexander had sobbed and come as soon as Thomas got his hand around him, barely touched, ruining the fabric of the couch.

“Fuck,” Alexander had panted. “That’s gonna be a bitch to clean off.”

Thomas had laughed hoarsely, staring at Alexander still bent over the couch; more like flopped, really, as his body tends to go completely lax after orgasm. Thomas has gotten used to dragging himself up and moving Alexander around, cleaning him up, piling blankets on him to keep him warm. He’s learned that Alexander loves coconut water, will drink gallons of the stuff, but will wrinkle his nose up at Thomas’ own Aloe Vera juice. He’d stocked his fridge accordingly, and James’ eyebrows had raised high up on his forehead when he opened the fridge to see an entire shelf full of coconut water bottles.

“Thought you didn’t like coconut in anything but bath and body products,” he’d said and Thomas had shrugged.

“I’m broadening my horizons,” he’d drawled and James had shrugged, grabbed his own orange juice, and not brought it up again, God bless the man.

Now he’s standing, nursing a scotch neat and trying not to jitter out of his skin, surrounded by people who want to rub shoulders with him and shake his hand and discuss money without actually mentioning the word. He can see Gilbert circulating the room, which reassures him a little: he knows if he actually slips into a panic that Gil will come and rescue him. He can also see Alexander, hopping from party to party in an ill-fitting suit, Washington watching him with amused and protective eyes. Thomas watches him too, eyes his figure up and down, gazes at how his hands move as he talks, large gestures and explosive movements like he has to find a way for the energy that’s thrumming in his veins to get out and that’s the easiest outlet. Thomas knows, hidden under the buttoned up collar of his shirt, are marks from his mouth, bruises that have faded and been sucked back in again, darker, harder, marks that will last longer.

He and Alexander had met up earlier in the morning, Alexander banging on his door and Thomas dragging himself out of bed, groaning, still half asleep, and Alexander had breezed in with a stack of papers and set up shop in Thomas’ bed, burrowing into his many pillows and starting to work. Thomas had slumped after him, spent the morning dozing while Alexander rustled his papers and muttered to himself, until his throat felt too dry and he’d gotten up to chug a glass of Aloe juice. He’d crawled back into bed, taken Alexander’s papers from him, and kissed him, deep and satisfying.

Alexander had made a surprised noise, flailed about a bit, before placing his hands on Thomas’ bare hips and rubbing his thumbs into the muscles there. He’d grumbled about the taste of Aloe, comparing it to being forced to swallow a liquified gobstopper, too sweet, and Thomas had laughed against his lips and said every kiss should taste sweet, since he’s made of sugar.

“That’s a goddamn lie,” Alexander had chuckled, squeezed his hips, hefted Thomas fully into his lap and wrapped his arms around him, tight.

He and Thomas sat there for a full hour, kissing until their lips felt raw and then carrying on anyway. Hands on his back, in his hair, leaving beard burn on the tender, thin skin of Alexander’s throat. Tiny moans and sweet sighs and Alexander’s fingers creeping under the waistband of his boxers. Giggling against his lips and pressing his thumb into the dimple that appears whenever Alexander smiles.

He takes another sip of his drink and scans the room. He’s used to events like these, can go through the motions as easy as breathing, it’s just unfortunate that breathing is sometimes hard for him. It’s hot in the room, but it’s mostly filled with people he’s met a hundred times before, so he’s not too worried. He’s got Gil, and Washington too, and he guesses he could pull Alexander away into some broom closet somewhere and kiss him until he calms down if things get really dire.

He spends the first few hours chatting pleasantly and sipping at his scotch frugally so he doesn’t have to refill it. He doesn’t have any business to do tonight, no one to broker deals with or to impress, but the real talk always happens after everybody has gotten at least slightly tipsy and he prefers to be on this side of sober for it. There’s a time between formal handshakes that accompany small talk and wild dancing with ties wrapped around your head when it’s best to talk business, and even though Thomas has nothing to talk tonight, it’s still prudent of him to listen in on other people’s business and get a lay of the land.

“It’s a wonderful place,” the wife of a Republican politician is saying to him, placing her red manicured nails on his arm and smiling coquettishly at him, “Have you ever thought of selling it?”

Thomas tries his best to hide the way his lip wants to curl up automatically. To sell Monticello would be akin to selling his own soul; there’s no way it’ll ever be owned by anyone who isn’t a Jefferson, unless he dies a famous man and his family donate it to the State as a historical memorial, he guesses. He’d certainly never sell it to a harpy such as this one, swaying slightly with martini in hand and spilling the liquid onto her wrist.

“No, never,” he says politely, smiles, extracts her hand from his arm under the guise of dabbing away the liquid with the napkin under his scotch. She giggles, twirls her hair, probably thinks he’s being charming and a gentleman when really he’s planning an escape route in his mind.

The time for business deals comes and goes, Thomas leaning in on more than one conversation and squirrelling away information to talk over with James later, and people really start to get smashed. Thomas likes to avoid this bit, but he also likes to drink to make it easier, so he orders another scotch neat and hovers around the edges of the ballroom, watching everybody’s blood alcohol levels rise. He spots Alexander looking a bit wobbly, drink in hand, saying something fervently to Gilbert, and turns away. Alexander’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright; Thomas has seen that look many times for an entirely different reason.

He gets to see it close up again when Gil comes barrelling across the room with Alexander plastered to his side like a limpet, looking a bit desperate.

“Help me,” he says, strangled, and Thomas immediately puts down his drink only to then become unsure about whether or not he should just reach out and gather Alexander up into his arms like he wants to. That might seem weird to Gil, that he’d be so willing to just haul Alexander into his space with no questions asked, and his anxiety starts to snap at his heels.

He’s saved by Gil all but pushing Alexander towards him and he fumbles to catch him before he falls over. Luckily, Alexander seems content to wrap himself around whoever’s nearest. Thomas gazes down at him and wonders whether Alexander is sliding his hands under Thomas’ jacket because it’s _Thomas,_ or simply because he’s warm and standing up straight.

Alexander nuzzles into Thomas' cashmere sweater, a deep purple colour that looks ever so pretty against Alexander’s warm brown skin, and Thomas catches sight of tear tracks still wet on his cheeks. Something curls within him, unfurling, a bloom of concern that startles him for a moment. He wonders briefly if he’d have felt this worry over Alexander two weeks ago, before they’d embarked on this _thing_ that he’s become so attached to.

“I’ll take him home,” he says quietly, mostly to himself, and he hears Gil breathe out a grateful and relieved sounding _thank you._

“Come on, darlin’,” he murmurs, and that’s _definitely_ to himself, to _Alexander,_ and he hopes to God that Gil didn’t just hear him say it.

They start towards the exit, Alexander’s body slumping into his and impeding the speed of their journey greatly. He seems to have slipped into the portion of drunk that's just the irresistible urge to fall asleep and he seems content to do so curled up into Thomas’ side. Thomas slides his phone out of his pocket, makes a short call to his driver to come and pick them up, and then wraps his arms fully around Alexander, mostly to keep him upright.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. He can’t justify the tiny kiss he presses to the top of Alexander’s head, inhaling the scent of his honey shampoo.

The car comes and he manages to wrangle Alexander inside. Getting him to put on his seatbelt is a hard task since all he seems to want to do is drape himself all over Thomas. Thomas has him sit in the middle and coaxes him to lay his head on his shoulder, strokes his hair while Alexander croons nonsense, babbling in his ear.

The driver hovers like he’s on the edge of lending Thomas a hand in getting Alexander into his apartment but Thomas dismisses him and sweeps Alexander up into his arms instead, carrying him bridal style into the lobby and holding him there in the elevator.

“Woah,” Alexander whispers. Thomas can see his wide eyed stare in the mirrors on the walls and huffs a laugh. “You’re strong.”

“Just strong enough to carry you, sweetheart,” Thomas replies and Alexander giggles.

“That’s useful,” he says and curls his fingers into the hair at the nape of Thomas’ neck. He sucks in a breath and ignores it; he can smell the alcohol on Alexander’s breath and wants nothing more than to hydrate him, dump him on the bed, and make sure he gets a decent night’s sleep.

He does exactly that. He’d anticipated Alexander putting up a fight but he seems pliant and docile, taking the coconut water Thomas offers him and drinking it in long sips, sitting on the bed and letting Thomas unbutton his shirt and cuffs, unzip his slacks, push him backwards onto the bed until he’s wriggling on the soft pillows and smiling to himself. He’d insisted on keeping his socks on and Thomas let him, thinks it’s sort of cute, the sight of Alexander in his boxers and socks, digging his toes and fingers into the comforter.

The plan was to take the couch himself, since it’s more than big enough for him and incredibly comfortable too. All of his soft furniture has the capacity to be slept on, he’d made sure of it, so it’s no big deal to him, but him sleeping in the bed turns out to be another thing Alexander insists on. He pouts and tugs on Thomas’ arm, turning his big black doe eyes on him imploringly, and Thomas sighs and gives in without much of a fight. If Alexander asks in the morning then he’ll pretend that it took a lot more effort to break him; in reality, he gave in as soon as Alexander opened his mouth.

Alexander squirms until his head is on Thomas’ chest, his arm and leg draped over Thomas’ body and his other limbs splayed out behind him, taking up as much space as it’s possible for a man of his short stature to cover. Thomas doesn’t mind, likes to sleep on his back anyway, and he doesn’t want to disturb the way Alexander’s tapping on his sternum in time with his heartbeat.

“Du-dum, du-dum, du-dum,” he mumbles and Thomas smiles, slips his hand into Alexander’s hair.

“Go to sleep, Alexander,” he says, soft.

He wakes up in pretty much the same position, Alexander splayed out over most of the mattress and he himself confined to a small strip of space at the edge, except now he’s on his side and Alexander is curled up into him, thigh between Thomas’ legs and hand resting on the small of Thomas’ back.

He blinks around the room, pretending that the objects he sees every day hold any of his interest, but his eyes are always inevitably drawn back to Alexander. His eyelashes look long and dark against his cheeks, his lips pink and mouth open, a pillow crease indented on his skin. Thomas traces his finger over it and Alexander twitches his nose, makes a mumbling noise that rises at the end like he’s asking a question, and then his eyes are peeling open and he’s staring at Thomas in confusion that slowly seeps into horror.

“Oh my God,” he says and jerks himself back. Thomas watches him go, stung, frozen in place.

“How did I end up here, oh my God, this was not supposed to happen,” he’s saying, sounding like he’s talking to himself. “You are so stupid, Alexander, holy shit, I’m-” and he cuts himself off. Thomas hopes for a second that he’ll relax, unwind, crawl back into the cradle of Thomas’ body and they can have a proper cuddle, but his hands clench up into fists and his lips pull back into a snarl.

“I’m going to _kill_ Gilbert,” he growls and flings himself out of the bed. Thomas watches him stumble, pick up his clothes and yank them on sloppily, leave the room without looking back.

“There’s coconut water in the fridge for you,” he calls, voice wobbly and hoarse, and the response he gets is the slam of the front door.

He gazes blankly across the room and sinks back into the pillows. His arm falls into the space that Alexander occupied just minutes ago, and he rubs his hand across the sheets, still warm.

The next time he sees Alexander is two days later, and there’s two marks on his throat that were not put there by Thomas.

He decides he’s going to kill Gilbert too.

.

His plan to kill Gilbert does not go as intended. Instead of kidnapping him and trussing him up in the boot of his car, driving out to the edge of the desert, dragging him out and yelling at him, then abandoning him to die of dehydration, he ends up sitting on the tiles of Gilbert’s bathroom with a face mask on, drowning his sorrows in a bottle of wine.

Stubbornly, he won’t tell Gilbert what’s wrong. He’s too fragile, it’s all too soon to talk about. He can barely wrap his mind around it himself; he doesn’t want to open his mouth without practicing his words first. And this is important, this is Alexander, he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

The thought would have alarmed him a mere two days ago, but he’s come to terms with the fact that he’s well and thoroughly attached to the man now and he’s resigned himself a life of his heart thudding painfully whenever Alexander’s in the room; it no longer surprises him. Those two marks haunt him, niggle at him like a splinter under his fingernail, whispering the painful reminder that Alexander is not his.

He likes to keep things, special things, in a treasure box. His friendship with James goes in the box, the tulip poplar at Monticello goes in the box, his year abroad in France goes in the box. Smaller things, certain essays he’s written, emails from Angelica that he reads over and over, books he’s taken a particular shine to, memories of his time with Gilbert that he keeps close to his chest, they all go in the box too. Alexander, however, does not seem to want to go in the box.

Maybe his box is too full, or maybe Alexander is the wrong fit, or maybe you just can’t keep an entire person in a treasure box, but still he tries to lock Alexander in there and still Alexander refuses to go. Maybe he never will, maybe Thomas will constantly forlornly pine after him like a giant sap for the rest of his life, or maybe Thomas will abandon the box entirely and chase after Alexander as the ultimate prize.

Maybe this entire extended metaphor he’s concocted stands as a reminder that people can’t be kept, they can’t be owned, they can’t be preserved in one state and retained in a glass jar forever. Alexander, especially, needs to move, constantly is expanding and evolving, his mind and his countenance changing and reshaping as he learns. His enthusiasm, particularly, can’t be tempered. Thomas has found his niche, has stitched himself a nice comfortable suit to wear, one he’s shrugged on for years now and never fails to have the desired effect, but Alexander, it seems, is constantly visiting the tailor.

Maybe it’s good, then, that one of his friends is a fashion designer, and he snorts into the bottle of wine against his lips, spilling some liquid out of the corner of his mouth. Gil tuts at him, stops his hand when he goes to wipe it away.

“You’ll ruin the set of your mask,” he says and leans forward to dab at Thomas’ chin instead. Thomas wants to say, _it’s already ruined, everything’s ruined,_ but he thinks that would be a bit dramatic. Then again, he’s a dramatic guy, so he goes ahead and says it anyway.

Gil frowns. “What on earth do you mean,” he says flatly, his brow furrowing. The drying sludge on his forehead pulls and wrinkles and Thomas tilts his head in fascination.

“Oh, nothing,” he drawls, “It’s just that my life is a complete mess right now.”

“My life it going quite spectacularly,” Gil has the audacity to gloat, grinning and wiggling his toes.

“Well, bully for you,” Thomas glares at him, letting his accent come through thick and fast. Gil giggles, eyes bright and happy, and leans back against the tiles, spreading himself out against the cool floor.

Thomas eyes him up and down, the lean length of his body, his large hands, his sizeable dick. Gil’s lips are pouty and full, and Thomas can at least vaguely remember what it feels like to kiss him. The memories are from long ago, plus he was quite drunk at the time, and his head is so clouded with Alexander that he can’t help but circle back around to him in his thoughts.

“Lemme suck your dick,” he says finally, putting the bottle down and crawling over to Gil.

“What?” Gil yelps, and Thomas settles himself over Gil’s hips, leaning down and placing his weight on his hands, splayed out against the tile next to Gil’s head.

“Lemme suck your dick,” he repeats, and Gil sends him flying with the force of his push.

“Ow,” he mumbles, rubbing his head at where it hit the bathtub with a solid thump.

“I am a taken man, there will be no dick sucking tonight,” Gil declares grandly, and Thomas is knocked out of his wine-induced daze enough to blink at him in alarm.

“You? Taken?” he asks, “Since when? With _who?_ I’ve known you for half a decade, never once have you been _taken._ ”

“ _Oui, moi,_ taken by our delightful Hercules, since the night of that charity gala,” he provides smugly. “I brought champagne with me, I thought maybe he would need some buttering up, _mias,_ no. We didn’t drink the champagne until _long_ after all the sex we had.”

Thomas splutters, taken aback. “You’re taken? Like, fully and completely off the market, hands off to anyone but Hercules?”

“Well,” Gil muses, flexing his toes. “I would like to include John in our little relationship, but I am unsure of how he would receive it. John is a lot harder to read than Hercules, I don’t want to scare him away.”

“Isn’t John asexual?” he asks.

Gil blinks at him. “Yes.”

“So,” Thomas prompts, and then continues when Gil continues to blink at him in silence, “How would that work?”

“There are ways,” he says slowly. “Ways that include me not being a dick and insisting he has sex with me.” He kicks out his foot and it connects painfully with Thomas’ ankle. “Not everything is about sex, you know. A relationship can be meaningful and healthy just as easily without it as with.”

He thinks about Alexander, thinks about how their relationship is essentially non-existent outside of sex. Thinks about what his reaction would be if Thomas approached him and asked for a _meaningful and healthy relationship._ Thinks about how Alexander would scoff and laugh at him, would probably never let him forget it. Thinks about how much that would hurt.

The crocodile that all but disappears in Gilbert’s presence opens its eyes and yawns wide, its teeth gleaming, waking up and scenting blood.

Thomas congratulates Gilbert, holds his hand when he gets teary eyed as he describes what it is about Hercules and John that he adores so much, merely pretends to put up a fight when Gil records him howling as his mask peels off along with what feels like half of the skin on his face and sends it to James, laughing raucously.

So he doesn’t kill Gil, and he doesn’t ask why Alexander would want to kill him either, but it’s a good night anyway. He walks away from it with his skin smooth and his mind swirling with thoughts of a happy relationship like Gil’s, and when he stares into the darkness of his bedroom before sleep he imagines what it would be like if Alexander were here, with him, in a meaningful and healthy capacity.

He curls a hand over the side of the bed Alexander had slept on, and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave :) feedback :) or :) you're :) a :) dick :)


	4. john

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John doesn’t know if Gil and Hercules really believe they’re being subtle, or they think that he’s completely blind, but there’s no way he could miss the shift in their relationship."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you have a problem with john being trans then you can leave immediately, thanks

John doesn’t know if Gil and Hercules really believe they’re being subtle, or they think that he’s completely blind, but there’s no way he could miss the shift in their relationship.

It’s been two days and John thinks that maybe he’ll go mad with this. They’re affectionate anyway, they all are, lots of sitting in each other’s laps and sleeping in the same bed and kissing each other’s cheeks, but. This is something different, something more. Something sexual. Maybe they think he can’t tell, can’t see it clear as day, because he’s asexual, but he’s not completely insensitive, it’s not like he can’t see the signs of intimacy in a carnal sense, the way it differs from the friendly affection they’ve always smothered each other with.

Alexander’s having sex too, John can tell, but he doesn’t know who with. Alexander’s usually an open book, usually casually open about who he’s taking to bed, but he’s clamped his mouth down tight around this and John’s not sure why. He looks dazed sometimes, far away, and other times he’ll twist his fingers together until the knuckles turn white and clench his jaw so much it seems painful, looking angry, looking unhappy. John wants to ask what’s going on, wants to run his fingers through his hair and let Alexander push his face into that cluster of freckles on John’s neck that he seems to love so much, but he’s a bit distracted by Gil and Herc and his own terrible feelings about it all to be anything but utterly selfish right now.

It’s not just sexual, this thing they’ve started, he can tell. It’s _romantic._ Something caves and crumbles in his chest when he realises, the look in Gil’s eyes a different kind of soft, the way Hercules touches him so gentle and reverent, the way they linger and whisper and giggle. John had seen Hercules kiss Gil’s ear, whisper something that made Gil lean back into him and sigh, and John had swallowed down the bitterness that was starting to fester within him, and looked away.

John remembers the early days of being a teen, of gathering around lockers in groups and giggling over boys, skirt rolled up and white socks pulled past his knees, hair in braids or a ponytail with a pretty red ribbon. Remembers passing notes in class, asking each other what their _top five_ was, like it was the most important thing in the world.

Back then it wasn’t weird to have a crush on more than one person; in fact, it was weird to only have one crush. Scribble down a bunch of names, numbered in a list, the number one being the person you really want to go steady with and number five the person you wouldn’t say no to. Now, people think your heart can only belong to one person at a time, that it’s selfish and greedy to love more than one person, that it’s _cheating,_ and it makes him shudder.

His heart aches for Hercules, for Gil, still a little bit for Alexander. Maybe they think that because he’s asexual that he doesn’t want a relationship but that’s _not true,_ he wants it so much it hurts. He loves to kiss, to touch, to be close, he aches to feel loved. He’s had sex before, lots of it, had spent a lot of time in his teen years rebelling against his father, sneaking out his room and climbing down the tree next to his window, going to parties with his friends and leading boys by their hands to the bathroom, bending over and flipping his skirt up and hearing them groan.

There was a time when he was a good girl, a daughter his dad could be proud of, happy to learn the names of all the cutlery surrounding his plate settings at dinner parties, to sit for portraits so his dad could hang them in his study and show them off to his friends, to wear dresses and pretty skirts, mascara and lipgloss, sit with the other girls at Daughters of the American Revolution meetings, and learn to be lead around the dancefloor. That time is long gone, though, he knows, and he spent a lot of his youth being angry, being stubborn and spiteful and screaming terrible things across the room to his father, cutting his hair and wearing black and being rude to every one of his dad’s friends that he was forced to meet.

He slept with boys his father would never approve of, earned himself a bit of a reputation, became the person all the girls would come to with wide eyes and nervous laughter and eager ears to hear his stories. He never really wanted the sex, there was no drive for it there, he was just being manipulative and vindictive, wanted to laugh at the sounds the boys would make, the faces they’d pull when they came, the terribly cheesy lines they’d copy from pornos like that would get him hot. Those boys didn’t care about him, just wanted to stick their dicks somewhere warm and wet and open, and John didn’t care about them either. The girls would talk about getting wet from just making out, about soaking their panties through, about rubbing off on a guy and gasping into their mouths, about the rush of pulling a cock into hardness, into coming, into spilling all over their fists and staining their clothes.

John didn’t really get it. His friends were horrified when he said he’d never had an orgasm, though they weren’t particularly surprised that a boy couldn’t get him off, said it was something that needed to be taught with exceedingly high amount of time and patience. There were ways to get themselves off, they’d told him, toys he could use, discreetly buy off the internet. Slide into himself and squeeze around, thrust and grind and rub until he came.

“There’s ways to fake it too,” Susan had whispered, wide eyed, and all the other girls nodded like it was something they were used to doing.

So he made all the appropriate noises, clenched down tight after a few minutes and heard the quick, _oh, fuck,_ from whoever was inside him at the time, pulled up his knickers and thanked the guy breathily like it was the best fuck of his life. He laid in bed at night with his hand under his nightie, rubbing and squirming around, waiting for something that never came and sighing in frustration. He didn’t even really want it, maybe that was the problem, his utter lack of interest.

It’d petered out after a while, his rebellion, until he was just depressed and weepy, feeling too big for his body, too stifled by his father, forced into a role he didn’t want to play anymore. He’d nearly fucking cried at his coming out party, at the irony of it, walking down the staircase in a horrific white monstrosity of a dress on the arm of his beaming father, wanting to _scream._ A _coming out party,_ God, could his life get any more _ridiculous,_ he remembers thinking.

Then he’d moved away, crushed all his father’s dreams and moved out of the South, away from home, from the house where his wardrobe was filled with dresses and skirts and lingerie, away from the portrait of the person he used to be hanging in the foyer, away from all the restrictions that came with expectations.

He’d changed his pronouns, his name, everything he wore, everything he owned, until he felt more like a person and less like a doll. Thank fuck for his friends, for being so accepting and open minded, for not questioning John’s choices in the slightest. Thank every deity above for George Washington, who was willing to lie to his father about his studies, let his dad think he was studying the law like a good girl and not fucking around with zoology and fine art like John really wanted. Thank God for Alexander listening him stuttering through his speech about why he didn’t want to have sex, for tilting his head and holding up a finger and disappearing for a few terrifying minutes and then returning with his laptop, a wealth of research and information at his fingertips that he let John find out for himself. It was incredible, it was such a relief, to finally have a label he could slap on himself and feel like it fit. It doesn’t work for everybody, he knows, but it works for _him_ and he _finally_ feels comfortable.

He still tried, a few times. Thought, maybe, it was a fluke, that he could be slightly more normal than the rich Southern daughter-turned-son taking liberal arts subjects at a liberal school, going to rallies, throwing punches, never apologising. But he wasn’t. Normal didn’t fit him, he’d never be acceptable, he’d always be trans and always be asexual and always get a rush from making his knuckles bleed, nose bleed, gums bleed. People would always turn their noses up at him, they’d always say he wasn’t what he was, they’d always try to touch him when he said he didn’t want it. They’d never understand him, his father would never be proud of him, Gil and Herc and Alexander would never love him.

But he’s okay, he’s doing okay. He repeats this over and over in his head as he goes about his day, reminds himself when he smooths baby oil into the scars on his chest, drums it into his brain when he sees Gil grab Hercules’ hand and leave the room without him. He’s okay, he’s fine, he’s doing good. He gets high in the art room and sticks his hands in a bunch of acrylic paint and feels a bit better. He punches a wall and scrapes his knuckles raw, pulls his hair into buns so tight that his scalp is painful for hours after he takes them out, chews his fingernails so far down to the quick that he can’t touch anything without wincing.

He gets on with it. He goes to another movie night, sits through three Star Wars movies in uncomfortable silence, watching Gil drape himself all over Hercules, watching Alexander stare into space and press his fingers into the marks on his neck and then snap out of it, suddenly, yanking his hands away like they’ve been burned. He feels curls of bitterness settle in his gut, ones that he _knows_ are unjustified. He reminds himself that he’s been through worse, through so much worse, so why does this feel like he’s being punched in the gut at every turn?

He watches several episodes of The Office before he realises he’s watching Jim pine after Pam and slams the laptop shut. He twiddles his thumbs and fucks about with his watercolours for a bit, thinking about maybe getting stuck into some oil painting, and then blanching when he remembers he’s left all his paint tubes at Gil’s place. He goes to the gym and sweats out his frustration, punches the bag until his fists ache, covers himself carefully in the locker room after.

It’s a relief when Alexander shows up at his door later that evening, eyes pleading, looking to get high. John’s not going to deny him, is never going to deny him, so he rolls a few joints, lays them out on the living room table, and they collapse on the couch together, taking hits and not speaking for long minutes.

“Gil and Herc are fucking,” he says eventually, after taking a long satisfying drag and exhaling it in a stream.

Alexander’s eyebrows fly up, his dark eyes round and wide and the pupil’s blown out. “They are?” he asks, and his voice sounds dreamy and slow.

John blinks at him. “You haven’t noticed?”

Alexander shakes his head slowly. “I thought Gil liked you.”

John snorts. “If he does then he’s doing a mighty fine job of fucking somebody else.”

He takes another hit. Alexander follows him, eyes narrowed and staring at the side of John’s face, head tilted like a puppy, like he’s trying to pierce John’s skull and hear what’s going on inside his brain. Good luck to him, John thinks. _He_ doesn’t even know what’s going on in his brain, and it’s his own damn brain. You’d think after twenty-one years he’d be pretty familiar with the inner workings of his mind but, nope, obviously not.

“You sound angry,” Alexander says after a moment. John lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes.

“I’m trying not to be,” he mumbles. Rubs his thumb into his forehead, pushes his fingers over his eyes like it’ll shake something out of him. “I’m really trying.”

“Do you like Gil?” Alexander asks. He’s moved, is sitting criss-cross applesauce on the couch, angled towards John. John wants to crawl into his lap, wrap himself around him and not let go. Alexander’s body is familiar, is comforting, is exactly what he needs right now.

“It’s not just about Gil,” he says miserably.

Alexander tilts his head further. It’s starting to look uncomfortable. “You mean, you’re upset he hasn’t told you?”

John shakes his head hard, curls flying. It feels good, he feels looser, so he keeps doing it. “No, no, no, it’s not _just_ Gil,” he repeats, “It’s Herc too, it’s Gil and Herc, I like them both, it’s the worst fucking thing to ever happen to me.”

Alexander’s fingers press into his arm, wrapping around his bicep. “Hey,” he’s saying, but John just keeps shaking his head. “Hey, hey, come on, Jacky baby, don’t hurt yourself.”

“It’s the worst,” John says in a small voice, blinking away tears.

“You can endure,” Alexander whispers, “You’ve endured more, you can endure this too. I know you can, Jack.”

John shakes, trembles, feels a tear drip down his cheek. Alexander takes the joint from his hand, puts it down on the table despite the waste, and settles himself over John, hands on his cheeks. He kisses away the salt left on John’s cheek, knocks John’s snapback off and presses his nose into John’s curls. John wraps his hands around the give of his hips, squeezes, basks in the familiarity of Alexander’s body.

“I’m here, what do you need, I got you Jacky,” he mumbles, slides his hands over John’s bare shoulders. John shivers. It’s probably too cool in his apartment to be wearing a tank top and shorts since John likes to blast the A/C but he’d not bothered to change after the gym and it feels nice to have Alexander’s hands on his skin.

Alexander taps over his freckles, counting under his breath, like he used to when they’d lie in bed together. “I got you, I got you,” he keeps saying, like a broken record. John blinks through the wet haze of his tears and gazes at the fading red and purple marks on Alexander’s neck, thinks about what Alexander’s not telling him, thinks about keeping secrets and feels hollow inside.

“Kiss me,” he says and Alexander, God bless his soul, does exactly that without questioning.

It’s warm and soft and comforting, Alexander’s mouth tasting sharp from the weed. He kisses slightly differently, slower, whereas John remembers him always going fast, being impatient, maybe a little too eager. Not that he’s not eager now, because he is, curling his tongue around John’s and making little sighing sounds, and John’s happy to have him in his lap and to touch his waist and to sink into the familiarity of his kisses.

John slides his hands up to Alexander’s hair, cupping his neck, and presses his fingers inadvertently into some of the marks there. Alexander makes a noise like he’s been wounded and rips his mouth away, leaning back and panting.

“You okay?” John asks, licking his lips. Alexander’s eyes track the movement and he nods absently.

“This is- You know this isn’t, like,” he flaps his hands around and scrunches his face up, and John almost laughs at him.

“I know,” he says gently, rubbing his thumbs into Alexander’s neck. Alexander’s breath hitches and he covers John’s hands, stopping his movement.

“I’m not stupid, Alexander,” John says quietly, “You’ve got something going on, and you don’t have to tell me, but I’m not dumb enough to think this is anything but us getting high and taking comfort in each other. Just- Just kiss me, just kiss me, come on.”

Alexander swallows, plays with the thin material of John’s tank top, fits his hands underneath it. John’s muscles tighten up and he giggles, Alexander joining in, because John’s always been ticklish and it breaks the slightly awkward atmosphere somewhat.

Alexander presses little butterfly kisses against John’s lips, against the freckles on his face, and John smiles and leans into him, leans into the feeling of closeness, the easy affection between them. He’s not Gil and he’s not Herc but he’s Alexander and John needs this right now, needs to feel wanted.

He suspects that Alexander needs it too, probably for different reasons, because he tilts his head back and directs John’s mouth to his throat and John goes with it, thinking Alexander’s trying to compensate for something. He sucks two marks into his already abused skin, Alexander’s fingers tight on his shoulders, and when he pulls back he notes that they look fresh next to his other marks, new and dark, and wonders if the person who gave Alexander these bruises in the first place will see them.

Alexander’s gone still above him, stiff, and John carefully kisses the corner of his jaw, light and searching. “Are you okay?” he mumbles against Alexander’s skin and feels him swallow.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, tugging John’s face away from his throat, “Why do you want this? Why me, why now?”

John stares at him. “I need to feel wanted right now,” he says honestly, frankly, “I need to know that someone loves me. I know you, I know you love me, I just need this.”

Alexander strokes his fingers over John’s cheeks. “Okay,” he says, but he’s still stiff.

“Why are _you_ doing this?” John asks, curious. Alexander’s always indulged him, and John had done the same right back, which had ultimately been destructive and bad for them, but it means that they’ve always shared everything with each other. John felt bad about keeping his feelings for Gil and Herc from Alexander, but he feels a bit better knowing that Alexander’s also been keeping things from him too. Well, he doesn’t feel _good_ about it, he actually feels a little hurt, but fair is fair, he supposes.

Alexander is silent for a moment, his lips pressed together. He looks down and his hair falls into his face, a soft curtain of black, and John thinks about pushing it away but he thinks maybe that Alexander needs to hide for a little bit, doesn’t want to look at John on purpose.

“I need to belong to somebody else,” he whispers, and John wants to screw up his face, wants to ask who he thinks he _belongs_ to, but he keeps his face carefully blank.

“I need to know I can _be_ with someone else, you know, that I can choose someone else,” he continues and John _doesn’t_ know, doesn’t know what the fuck he’s on about, but he nods anyway.

“Okay,” he says, fists his hands into Alexander’s hair and pulls him back down for more kisses.

It’s sweet and soft and slow, and John can smell the weed and the scent of Alexander’s honey shampoo, and it’s nice, for once, to feel wanted. Alexander’s using him, just as he’s using Alexander, but he doesn’t think that’s a bad thing. He slides his hands across Alexander’s skin and revels in the closeness, the intimacy, the comfort and familiarity of the act.

He’s not Herc, and he’s not Gil, but he’s Alexander and he loves him and that’s enough for now.

.

John is restless and jittery all the rest of the week. He spends a lot of his time in the art room, fucking about with clay and acting like he knows what the hell he’s doing, ignoring Gil when he comes and sits quietly with him. It’s weird to know that Gil’s watching him, it makes him feel hot and fidgety, and he keeps touching his lips like Gil will be able to tell that he and Alexander kissed.

Hercules gives him his T shot. His hands are gentle and John tries his best not to shiver when he smoothes over his shoulders, murmurs reassurances. John’s not so comfortable with needles, but it’s a necessity and he’s not about to _not_ take his testosterone.

He remembers being on the subway a few months back, how a child had pointed at him and said he had long hair for a boy, and he’d tried to suppress his grin all the way home. His voice is deeper, his jaw is squarer, he has thicker hair on his legs, under his arms, down his belly. He remembers growing a tiny bit of fuzz on his top lip and feeling amazing for an entire week before he looked in the mirror and decided facial hair _really_ didn’t suit him.

There are other things too, things maybe aren’t so obvious. His hands are wider, which is strange, and his appetite has expanded, and he’s found that just before his shot he feels sluggish and lethargic and the day after he’s about ready to punch through a wall. It’s odd, but he rolls with it.

Hercules is sweet, tries to engage him in conversation, but John doesn’t want to talk to him right now. He can’t stop thinking about the way Hercules’ hands had cradled Gil’s hips at movie night, how he’d held him like he was delicate, how he’d looked up at him with shining eyes. He taps on the freckles on John’s shoulders and John shrugs him off, ignores the flash of hurt in Hercules’ eyes and thanks him for his help.

“You know I don’t mind,” Hercules says and his voice is smooth and deep. John swallows.

“You’re a good friend,” John mumbles and Herc’s smile goes strained around the edges.

“Hey, look, can we talk?” he asks and John looks away quickly.

“Nah, bro, I gotta be somewhere,” he says awkwardly, hiking a thumb over his shoulder. Hercules blinks at him and holds his hand up in a stiff wave.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “Bro. See you later.”

John skedaddles as fast as he can. He goes for a run, feet slapping the pavement harshly, the sun beating down on his shoulders. His hair sticks to the back of his neck and he pulls it up, breathing hard. He licks the sweat off his top lip and tries not to think about Hercules’ hands on his shoulders, about how his lips would feel there, about getting his hands on Hercules’ dark skin and just touching him for long hours. He remembers curling up in Hercules’ lap on the Lord of the Rings movie night, sharing pizza with him, Hercules squeezing his waist and pulling him closer, and slows to a walk.

The park he’s ended up in is happily bustling along, people walking their dogs and kids running around squealing and folks stopping in the middle of the path to catch Pokémon. John bends at the waist and touches his toes, stands up and stretches his hamstrings. He’s sweating: summer is turning and though John is used to the heat of South Carolina it’s still humid today, the sun beating down on his shoulders. He forces himself to breathe, slow his heartbeat down, then heads to his apartment to get changed out of his sweaty clothes.

He decides he wants his oil paints after all, wants something delicate and fiddly to fill his thoughts instead of the litany of speculation about Gil and Herc that’s running through his brain. Alexander pops up too: John hadn’t missed the fact that Alexander avoided telling him who it is who’s been leaving all those marks on his neck, making him space out of conversations, leaving him looking distracted and troubled.

Gil’s nowhere to be found when John lets himself into his apartment with the spare key. He resists the urge to linger, to look through Gil’s things for evidence of his and Herc’s activities, because he knows it’s an exceptionally stupid thing to do and he doesn’t want to hurt himself even more if he finds anything. What he’d even find he doesn’t know: a love letter, maybe? That seems dumb, and John knows that any clothes or nick-nacks he’d find about the place that belong to Hercules have been there for months, have always been there, the same way that John’s got a drawer of clothes here, that Alexander’s got his own tin of coffee grinds; the same way that Gil’s left things at John’s place and Hercules has things at Alexander’s. Really, they should all live together, given how interwoven they are in each other’s lives, but for whatever reason it’s not worked out that way.

John’s still got his own room at Gil’s, though. There’s no real explanation for it, or even a need, but it’s sweet all the same. John’s got money, plenty of it, since his mother left him a trust fund that kicked in as soon as he turned twenty-one, which he used immediately for top surgery and testosterone treatment. It didn’t even matter that his father cut him off for a while there, he’ll never be hurting for money. It’s been months since then, though, and he and his father have developed a sort of uneasy relationship where his dad is trying to understand and mostly failing miserably but John appreciates the effort all the same.

He doesn’t need this room at Gil’s, but he has it anyway. It’s an art studio more than anything, a place where he stores his canvases and paints and occasionally does actual work when the art room at the college is too full for his liking. There’s a bed, large, because Gil doesn’t know how to not spend too much money on everything, and John likes to spend nights here, sometimes. Most of the time if he stays Gil will slink in and curl up behind him, press his face into John’s curls and breathe deep. He always sleeps well on those nights, wakes up feeling content and warm rather than restless and antsy. Even if he does wake up on edge, which doesn’t happen often, Gil will run his hands down John’s sides, pet his ribs and hips, and John relaxes back into him automatically every time.

The room is empty when John enters, untouched. He stayed here only a week ago: Gil had crawled into bed with him, had rubbed his hands into John’s belly, had mumbled into his neck. John’s heart had fluttered and he’d turned his face into the pillow, quietly revelling in the closeness of Gil’s body, the long line of him against his back, the way his gangly legs tangled with John’s.

He grabs the tubes of oil paints, jams them in his backpack, and leaves quickly.

There’s a few people in the art room when he arrives, so he sticks his headphones in and gets to work quietly, ignoring everybody around him. John’s pretty infamous for getting lost in his work, so everyone on his course has learned to not get offended by his silence, and he ends up spending hours dabbing paint onto a small canvas, a dappled version of the park that afternoon appearing before him in Monet’s _en plein air_ style.

He sighs as he winds down, swiping his forearm across his forehead and probably smudging paint everywhere. He cleans off his brushes, packs up his paint tubes again, and moves his canvas to the other side of the room where they stash all the in-progress work so nobody ruins them accidentally.

The night air is cool on his skin when he steps out. He sighs and looks up at the sky, the light pollution obscuring all the stars, and he feels a little wistful for his home back in South Carolina. John used to sit out on the back porch and teach his siblings the constellations, could point up at the sky and trace them out with his fingers. He sighs again and heads for home, to an empty bed, to another night of wondering what Gil and Herc are up to without him.

He shakes his head. Maybe Alexander would be up for another night of getting high and making out. He adjusts his course, hops on the subway to Alexander’s instead, leg jiggling up and down with his impatience. He’s tired and today has been long and he knows that tomorrow morning he’s going to wake up and head straight to the gym, pick a fight with someone, let them beat him up a little and hit back while his blood is still hot. He wants to go to sleep content, if not happy, and Alexander’s his best bet at not going to bed feeling lonely.

He uses the spare key to let himself in, rolling his eyes at the mess that greets him as he steps inside. Alexander’s always been a bit of a hurricane, always moving, leaving disarray in his wake. There’s papers and books piled up and scattered about the place, cans of red bull and discarded bottles of coconut water, some random socks and stray hoodies that Alexander’s shrugged off and forgotten about strewn over the furniture. It’s not terrible, but it’s not neat either, and John is so used to Alexander’s bad habits that he automatically sets about picking things up.

His arms are full of bottles to dump in the recycling as he heads to the kitchen, and then stops abruptly, because he hears voices. Alexander’s he recognises, sort of high and scratchy, but the other voice is a mystery to him. Slow and southern and deep, a drawl that’s natural and unhurried, and John can’t think of anybody Alexander would be murmuring to in his kitchen with an accent like that. None of their friends are Southern, save for John, and he’s tried his hardest to erase his accent as much as he can.

Curiosity piqued, he shuffles closer, craning his neck like it’ll help him hear better. He doesn’t want to round to corner and be seen, not yet, so he settles for hovering and eavesdropping on the conversation.

“I didn’t know,” Alexander’s saying, sounding small, which is odd for him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to make it weird,” the voice says.

“It was already weird,” Alexander scoffs, and John can picture him rolling his eyes. “It’s always going to be weird, I think.”

“But good, though, right?” the voice says and Alexander hums.

“Very good,” Alexander says, “Exceptional, even.”

“Outstanding,” the voice says.

“Remarkable,” Alexander shoots back.

“Phenomenal.”

“Extraordinary.”

“Sensational.”

“Unparalleled.”

“Stupefying.”

“Alright, okay, shut up and kiss me,” Alexander says and John almost drops the bottles in his arms when he realises that _this_ must be the person Alexander’s been seeing, who’s been leaving hickeys all over his throat like a very possessive or possibly insecure teenaged vampire.

John’s more than just curious now. He knows it’s probably wrong, that he should wait for Alexander to tell him, but _come on._ They’re _right there,_ and John’s only so strong, damnit, and the temptation is irresistible.

He licks his lips and tiptoes forwards, leans around the partition, and promptly cries out in absolute horror and drops everything in his arms. The bottles make clattering noises as they bounce off the floor tiles but John’s too aghast at the image of _Thomas Jefferson_ with his tongue down Alexander’s throat, Alexander’s hands _inside_ Jefferson’s open jeans, to even notice.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” he keeps repeating, squeezing his eyes shut, grimacing. “Oh God, that’s so gross, what the fuck, holy shit.”

He opens his eyes again, because apparently he’s actively seeking out things that can hurt him these days, but luckily Alexander and Jefferson have put some space between them. John catches Jefferson zipping up his jeans though and has to concentrate very hard on not throwing up in his mouth.

“Laurens,” Jefferson drawls, nods at him like this is a totally normal occurrence. John gapes at him, then decides to ignore him completely for the sake of his mental health.

“What the fuck,” he manages to get out and Alexander’s mouth moves but no words come forth. Jefferson rolls his eyes and turns to Alexander, places a hand on his waist, leans in and kisses him on the forehead.

“See you later, darlin’,” he says and John almost chokes when Alexander _leans into him,_ closes his eyes, like he’s savouring the small kiss.

Jefferson edges his way around John, bends down and retrieves the forgotten bottles, dumping them in the recycling box like he’s done it a thousand times before. John watches in stunned silence.

“It was nice seein’ you, Laurens,” he says jovially and then he’s gone, the sound of the front door closing jolting John out of his daze somewhat.

He whirls around and points an accusing finger at Alexander. “You-” he half yells, strangled, but can’t seem to finish the sentence. Alexander wrings his fingers together, bites his lip, avoids John’s eyes.

“I can explain,” he says and John flaps his hands about manically.

“You’d better,” he retorts weakly, “I mean, _Jefferson?_ What the fuck.”

Alexander laughs and it sounds strained. He gestures to the chairs at the breakfast table but John’s too wound up, too shocked to sit still right now, so he settles for pacing up and down the small kitchen instead.

“I mean,” he licks his lips, “I’m not gonna try and stop you from seeing him, that would be weird and inappropriate, but as your friend I’m _concerned_ that you seem to have _lost your mind_.”

“I can see why you would think that,” Alexander says slowly. He’s not sat down either, standing rigid and proud, and John’s back hurts just looking at him.

“Have you?” John demands. “Have you lost your mind?”

Alexander stares at him. “No,” he says.

“Then why Jefferson?” John asks, strangled. This is a man he and Alexander have always disliked, have always picked fights with. He reminds John of everything he left behind, of stuffy obligations and traditions and uncomfortable dinner parties. He reminds him of his _father,_ of a person who thinks money can get him anywhere, of someone who smarms and charms and shakes the hands of just the right people to get ahead.

Alexander shrugs. “It just happened,” he spreads his hands, looking sheepish, “And then it continued to happen.”

John narrows his eyes. “It’s just fucking, whatever this is, him marking you up like he’s branding cattle, it’s not anything more than that, right?” he asks and thinks several angry veins in his forehead explode when Alexander winces.

“Uh,” he says eloquently, “I think it might be more than that.”

John tugs a hand through his hair, frantic. This can’t be happening, Alexander can’t be fucking Jefferson, can’t be doing _more than that_ with him.

“I’ve entered the twilight zone,” he mumbles to himself and hears Alexander snort.

“Look,” Alexander starts, and comes around to place himself in front of John, grabbing his elbows, forcing John to look at him. “I know what I’m doing. I get why you’re so,” he searches around for the right word, “Upset?”

“Appalled,” John corrects him. Alexander rolls his eyes.

“I get it, I do, which is most of the reason why I didn’t tell you, why I didn’t tell anyone,” he continues. “But as weird as it sounds, Thomas and I have got a good thing going. I’m enjoying myself, he treats me well, he’s not all that terrible.”

John feels something drop in his gut, hearing Alexander call Jefferson _Thomas,_ as easy as breathing. The realisation that this probably isn’t just a fling, a mistake, dawns on him slowly and he closes his eyes.

“Am I gonna have to be nice to him?” he asks.

Alexander snorts. “No,” he laughs, “God knows I’m not nice to him unless he’s given me an orgasm,” and John groans, chuckling a little despite himself, and Alexander grins and squeezes his elbows.

“Thanks for not freaking out too much,” he says warmly, obviously grateful, his eyes full of relief.

“What are friends for?” he replies weakly.

He and Alexander fill the next few minutes with light chatter about nothing of importance before John excuses himself. Alexander seems happy enough, babbles cheerfully as he leads John to the door and gives him a big hug before he leaves. John smiles at him, sets up a time to get coffee, and promptly heads off to Gil’s apartment so he can freak the fuck out without Alexander present.

“Did you know that Alexander and Jefferson are fucking?” he yells loudly as soon as he steps in the place and Gil rips his mouth away from Hercules and blinks up at him.

“Hello,” he says dumbly, and John ignores the spike of pain in his heart in order to angrily shed off his shoes and coat and start wearing a dent in the floor with his pacing.

“They’re not even just fucking, they’re on the verge of _dating,_ I feel like I’m gonna hurl,” he cries, throwing his arms up in the air. “We’re gonna have to spend time with this asshole, and Gil, I know he’s your friend, but he’s an _asshole,_ and I’m gonna have to make nice with the guy, oh my God, this is a disaster, everything in my life is a disaster,” he rambles and collapses on the other end of the couch, burying his head in his hands.

When he looks up, both Hercules and Gil are staring placidly at him, eyebrows raised.

“Are you done?” Hercules asks, and John furrows his brow, ignores the shiny wetness of his lips, glares at him instead.

“Why are you two not freaking out about this, why am I the only person freaking out right now?”

“We already knew, _mon chèr,_ ” Gil says gently, reaches a hand out. John flinches back, automatic. Gil looks hurt, surprised, and he looks at Hercules with wide eyes. Hercules squeezes his ankle, whispers something to him, and John looks away.

“What do you mean, you already knew,” he asks sullenly, ignoring Gil’s term of endearment and the way it makes his heart flip flop in his chest. Gil’s called him his _coeur,_ his _chou,_ his _ange._ It’s sweet, John’s always found it cute, has wanted to call him sweetheart and baby, but now it feels wrong, bitterness tangling in his chest.

“Hercules thought something was going on a few weeks ago and then I almost caught them kissing. There was a gala, too, at which they were very affectionate. And the marks on Alexander’s neck were not exactly subtle,” Gil says mildly and John lets out a strangled laugh, rubs over his eyes.

“And you didn’t tell me,” he says, shaking his head. “Alexander didn’t tell me, and you didn’t tell me. Do I just not matter anymore?”

Both Gil and Herc look startled. John feels his heart rise to his throat as he realises he’s let his feelings spill over, the rejection and hurt he feels from Gil and Herc creeping its way into a conversation that’s not even about them. _Fuck it,_ he decides, _I’ve come this far._

“And neither of you told me about your new thing,” he says quietly, staring at his hands. “That hurt.”

It’s still for a moment, and John ignores the silent conversation that Hercules and Gil have with just their hands and their eyebrows that he can see happening out of the corner of his eye. It’s yet another thing that he’s left out of, he thinks sourly.

“I tried to talk to you,” Hercules says, breaking the quiet. His voice is so soft that John just wants to curl up in it, to take Hercules’ voice and wrap it around himself like a safety blanket. He swallows down the feeling and fiddles with his fingers instead.

“Why didn’t you just say? I don’t get why you wouldn’t tell me. I’m your friend, I want you to be happy, if it’s good news then why couldn’t you just tell me?”

“We wanted,” Gil says and then stops. John looks up at him, confused, and Gil licks his lips.

“We wanted to-” he starts again and then sighs. “I do not have the words,” he mumbles and Hercules squeezes his ankle again.

“It’s okay, you want me to speak, baby?” he asks. John’s gut lurches at the ease of the endearment, the affection in his words. _I want that,_ his brain whispers, traitorous and unhelpful.

“It might be weird, but just hear us out,” Hercules starts, his eyes dark and imploring, and John furrows his brow and tilts his head in confusion.

“Okay,” he says slowly, wary. Gil’s looking at him too, intensely, closely, and John feels uncomfortably exposed. He tries to make his face a blank slate, to clear himself of any emotions so he doesn’t let them pour out everywhere and make this awkward for everyone.

“We’re very happy together,” Hercules says and John grits his teeth. This is not going to be a fun conversation, he thinks absently, bracing himself for the worst, for hearing about how in love they are, about how perfectly their relationship is going, about how they probably want to run off into the sunset holding hands, leaving John behind in the dust.

“But we could be happier,” he continues, raising his eyebrows. John shoots them both a funny look, even more confused than before.

“With you,” Gil blurts suddenly, “We could be happier with you. Join us, we want you to be with us, we want you, we want-” he babbles and then presses his lips together, looking desperately towards Hercules.

“Yes, that, all of that, what he said,” Hercules says in a rush. “We’d love for you to be with us, for all of us to be together, that would be,” he breathes a rush of air between his lips, looking far away, “Perfect.”

John blinks at them both. He feels frozen, knocked off his axis, like he’ll collapse in the slightest breeze. Tonight has thrown him so many curveballs that he can hardly process it, his mouth dropping open, shock filtering through every part of his body, his nerves standing on end.

“Me?” he repeats, dazed. “You want- that? With me? For real? Both of you?”

Gil and Herc nod vehemently. Gil’s grabbed hold of Herc’s hand, is squeezing is so hard that his brown knuckles have turned almost white, and he’s chewing on his lip and looking scared. Hercules looks a bit hesitant too, his eyes anxious, searching John’s face closely. John blinks again, rapid little flutters, trying to wrap his mind around the whole thing.

So his love has not been rejected, it’s being _returned._ Hercules and Gilbert _want_ him, both of them, and it’s so absurd he could almost cry. What are the chances of that happening? It was crazy enough that the two people he was crushing on went ahead and started dating each other, the chances of that happening were low to begin with, so low he hadn’t actually even entertained the thought before it blindsided him and knocked the wind right out of his sails. Now, though, this is even more ludicrous. The two guys he likes also like him and want to be in a relationship, all three of them, together, at the same time, what the fuck.

His mouth opens and closes a couple of times, and he’s aware that he’s probably gaping unattractively, but he doesn’t care. He all but lunges at Hercules, because he’s closest, and presses their mouths together in a kiss that feels like coming home. Hercules opens his mouth up and kisses John eagerly, sucking on his lips, and John feels laughter bubble up in his chest and has to lean away.

Gil grabs him then, hands on his cheeks, and kisses him soundly, but they’re both grinning so hard that it’s not much of a proper kiss. Hercules kisses the side of his head, slides his hand around John’s waist, and John turns and kisses him again, sighing into it.

“My John, _mon coeur,_ ” Gil says again and again, stroking John’s hair as he kisses Hercules, and John hums and fumbles around to grab his hand. Gil squeezes tight, peppers kisses onto John’s shoulders, and John sighs and pulls back to look at them both.

Hercules grins at Gil and Gil beams back, his eyes crinkling up beautifully, and they lean in to kiss each other too. John watches closely, no longer feeling the need to tear his eyes away, not feeling any hurt or bitterness within him, only giddiness and happiness and delirious joy.

“I can’t believe it,” Gil mumbles against Hercules’ mouth.

“You better believe it,” Herc whispers and John laughs, kisses both of their cheeks, fits himself into the crook of Hercules’ arm to be dragged into a cuddle pile that’s so perfect he doesn’t ever think he’ll feel anything but utterly blissed out ever again.

They trade kisses back and forth for long hours, lolling about on the couch and touching each other. John unties Gil’s hair and runs his fingers through the tight curls, the wild halo of it, and Herc strokes the skin over his hips, his belly, tangles his fingers with John’s and kisses his neck.

They settle eventually, quiet and content, and John almost forgets what he came here for in the first place. He elbows Gil when he remembers, wide eyed.

“Alexander and Jefferson, though, huh. What the fuck, right?” he whispers.

“What the fuck indeed,” Hercules hums.

John tilts his head back and lets Hercules fit his face into the space between his shoulder and his throat, basks in the feeling of Gil pressed up against him, holding him close, kissing the freckles on his knuckles. He doesn’t really want to think about it in much detail but he hopes that Alexander is getting something like this from Jefferson. He hopes that Alexander is as happy as John is in this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave feedback or i'll kill you
> 
> edit: this was written before i knew i was a trans dude, life is amazing sometimes huh


	5. alexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Those few seconds in the morning after the gala, before his brain started to kick in properly, what he thought… Scared him. He bolted. Regret churns within him but his fear outweighs it and his instinct is to turn tail and run, not stay and curl up with Thomas, bask in his warmth, revel in the closeness of his skin."

Alexander is aware, before he opens his bleary eyes and greets the day, that he's becoming alarmingly attached to waking up in Thomas Jefferson’s bed.

He doesn't know much outside of that his head is killing him, like all the knowledge sucked down and stored in there has inflated and is pressing against his skull, and that he's in Thomas’ bed. This he knows because of the smell of the sheets, obnoxiously expensive and uniquely held in his memory as forever a smell he’ll relate to Thomas, and the masses of soft pillows that he rolls his eyes at the majority of the time, fond and exasperated. They’re almost _too_ soft, too squishy, too easy to sink down into and relax, especially for Alexander who voluntarily chooses to stand rather than sit, back pin straight, just to make a point; he’s never going to relax, or slow down, or be someone who gives anything but his all.

There’s fingers on his cheek, thighs and knees and toes pressing against his, and he grumbles a noise of dissent, trying to push past the ache in his skull to ask what time it is. Thomas says nothing and it occurs to him that maybe he’s not so coherent right now so he peels opens his eyes, gazing at Thomas’ sleep soft face, and thinks that this is a wonderful way to wake up.

He’s immediately fucking horrified, recoiling entirely from that thought and from Thomas himself, scrambling across the bed to get away.

“Oh my God,” he says, strangled and scratchy, “How did I end up here, oh my God, this was not supposed to happen.”

And, _fuck,_ it really _wasn't_ supposed to happen. He was never supposed to look at Thomas’ face, his warm eyes and his stupidly neat beard and his ridiculously full lips and think _he's beautiful._ He was never supposed to wake up in Thomas Jefferson’s bed and feel at home, feel comfortable and safe, feel _happy._

“You are so stupid, Alexander,” he berates himself, “Holy shit, I’m-” and he cuts himself off, swallowing, remembering last night and how he'd cried into Gil’s lapels, how he’d insisted on crawling all over Thomas in the car, how he’d pouted until Thomas slept in the bed next to him. He remembers how Gil has passed him drink after drink, deliberately getting him tipsy and then foisting him off onto someone else when he got too much to handle. He feels a flash of hot anger zip through him. Fuck him, honestly, fuck him.

“I’m going to _kill_ Gilbert,” he growls and rips himself off the bed. He stumbles about, pulling on his clothes clumsily, trying to concentrate on his rage in order to push through the pain pounding in his head. He leaves the room without looking back. He thinks he hears Thomas call something, probably yelling at him for being ungrateful and rude, but the slam of the door cuts it off.

He leans heavily against the wood for a long minute, pressing his fingers into his eyes, before taking a shaky breath and heading to the elevators. He has no idea what he's going to do, whether this terrible fucking feeling is ever going to go away, whether he’s ever going to be able to look at Thomas and think anything but _yes, perfect,_ and it’s legitimately scaring him. He stabs the button for the elevator and impatiently waits for the doors to open before slumping in and jabbing the ground floor button. He needs to be _out, out, out,_ he needs to get _away,_ and he also needs a coffee the size of his head.

He squints into the pale morning sun and sets off in a random direction, trying desperately not to think about what he’s leaving behind.

.

The thing is, he and Thomas haven’t even _fucked._ He doesn’t know why he’s so absurdly attached, so obsessed with this, other than the fact that he has an obsessive personality anyway. He’s done more with one night stands than he’s done with Thomas in three whole weeks, so he doesn’t know why he’s so hung up on it, on him.

He’s surprised, actually, at how fervently he feels. It’s like every nerve ending has been turned inside out and is now exposed, shivering and sensitive, and he’s relying on Thomas _motherfucking_ Jefferson to be gentle with him. Trusts his touch to be soft, to look after him, to care. His mind is used to being boggled by Thomas, mostly because he often comes out with such crap that it actually takes Alexander half a second to wrap his head around what he’s hearing before formating a cutting response, but he’s not used to it in this context. Maybe it’s not just his mind that’s confused, maybe it’s his heart too.

He doesn’t want to think about it. His mind betrays him anyway, his thoughts circling back around to Thomas every time he sets it off down a path of no relation. He can’t believe how much this man has taken over his life; before he was an annoyance, a buzzing fly to be swatted and sneered at with disdain, and now he’s more like a house pet, curling around Alexander’s ankles, butting his head Alexander’s hands to be petted.

Apart from the first ill-advised time on the couch at Gil’s place, it’s been Thomas who has initiated. He was the one to kiss Alexander in the library, mouth hot and searching, he was the one to text Alexander to come over, he was the one to drop to his knees and suck Alexander’s brains out through his dick. Alexander can’t deny that he wants to go further, he wants Thomas inside him, he wants to be fucked held up against the wall, bent over the couch, in that massive ridiculous fucking bed of his.

He wants to be in Thomas too, he wants it so badly that sometimes it’s all he can think about when he’s got his hand wrapped around his dick in the shower in the morning, and even sometimes when he’s _with_ Thomas, Thomas with his mouth around his cock, Thomas’ hands on him, Thomas’ cock down his throat. He especially wants to eat Thomas out, get his tongue in him, drive him fucking crazy, return the favour for that one time over the arm of Thomas’ couch, where he was almost sobbing into the cushions and came as soon at Thomas touched him. Thomas had come all over his back, his thighs, his ass, long strings of come drying tacky on Alexander’s skin, covering the marks Thomas had spent so long sucking into his skin, and it had been _incredible._

He likes that, he thinks, that feeling of being owned. It scares him too, makes his hands shaky and breath come quick, because he’s not entirely sure if he’s _ready_ for that, and he’s not sure if he’s ready for it with _Thomas,_ of all people. His most serious relationships he can count on one hand: Eliza, Aaron, and John, and with none of them had he felt this craving for more, now, now, now.

Not to put any of them down or make light of their relationships, because with Eliza he’d had his very first love, sweaty palms and all, and with Aaron he’d had a steadiness and stability he’s never felt before, and with John he’d had unwavering devotion and and an ease of communication that never failed to astound him as neither he nor John talk about their actual emotions much.

With Thomas he has- Well. He’s not sure what he has. The urge to snap his neck every time he opens his damn mouth, to kiss him until their both dizzy with it, to fit himself into Thomas’ bed and body and life until it’s impossible for him to leave. But he doesn’t have those things, he just _wants_ those things, and it scares him.

He spends movie night, this time hosted at Hercules’ apartment, staring blankly with unfocused eyes at the television and pressing his fingers into the marks on his throat. He’d peeled his clothes off earlier, intent on changing into sweats and a hoodie so he could really present a picture of misery and patheticness, and he’d caught his reflection in the mirror and had to stop. Thomas has bitten and sucked so many marks into him that it’s actually pretty astonishing. He’d gone about it in such a single-minded way that it made Alexander think he could probably do it for hours, meticulously and with such scrupulous attention that it reminded Alexander, somewhat hysterically, of himself when he’s writing essays.

He pretty much ignores everyone that night. It’s probably incredibly rude to Hercules and John, he knows and feels a little guilty about, but he viciously hopes Gil feels the lack. It was Gil who invited Thomas over that first time, Gil who got him drunk, Gil who pushed him into Thomas and inadvertently caused Alexander’s revelation. It’s a bit of a stretch to blame Gil for everything, and he hears Hercules’ solemn voice in his head intoning,  _“He’s reaching, your honour,”_  but he’s upset and a little bit angry and it’s easier to pin it all on Gil than admit he didn’t do anything to stop this from happening.

In fact, he’d probably accelerated the whole thing, if anything. A text from Thomas inviting him to his apartment led to Alexander blithely swanning in whenever he liked, drinking all of Thomas’ coconut water, spreading his papers and laptop and books all over Thomas’ furniture and spending long hours in his company. Half the time it wasn’t even sexual: he’d just sit and watch Thomas wander about, reading his book, watering his plants, nearly burning himself cooking his dinner, and Alexander would feel perfectly content.

He considers that maybe he's formed some sort of Stockholm Syndrome, that he's started to love his captor, and then dismisses the notion as wild and ridiculous. He’s as free to come and go as he always was; granted he used to choose to be as far away from Thomas as possible, whereas now he's more likely than not to actively seek out Thomas’ presence.

He wonders if he’d ditch this movie night with his friends if Thomas texted him, and is startled to find that part of him would actually seriously consider it.

He’s scared by this attachment, this magnetic pull towards Thomas that he's feeling. He’s like a fish panicking and wriggling inside the net as the boat slowly pulls him out of the water, closer and closer to his fate but still desperately struggling to cling onto the life he knew.

He does stupid shit when he's scared, he knows all too well, and the only other person he knows who's as reckless as he is is John, so it makes sense to turn up on his doorstep with a sheepish grin and a careless attitude, looking to get high and get fucked up one way or another.

He doesn't expect to find out that Gil and Herc are dating, he doesn't expect John to be so distraught about it, and he certainly doesn't expect John to ask him to kiss him, but he does it anyway. John needs him, and he selfishly needs John, needs to do this to break free from Thomas’ hold even if it's only for half an hour. Sitting in John’s lap on the couch, hands on John’s shoulders while John sucks new marks into his skin, high on his neck where people can see, where _he_ can see, be reminded, that he doesn't belong solely to Thomas.

It’s a relief, in a way, but it also makes his heart ache. As soon as John leans back and Alexander’s skin throbs with a new bruise he knows it was a mistake. John says _I need to feel wanted right now,_ and Alexander says _I need to belong to someone else,_ and it’s still a mistake but he doesn’t feel as bad about it. They need each other, in this moment. He’s glad he has John.

He’s not Thomas, he’s not what Alexander desperately aches for, but he’s John and that’s enough for now.

.

 _Beep beep beep beep,_ goes his alarm and Alexander groans and throws a flailing arm out to attempt to whack at it, missing entirely and trying again anyway. _Game don’t wait, heavy, wait, eyes heavy but it’s time to grind motherfucker,_ the rapper sings in monotone and Alexander joins in.

“Can’t be late, hold up, wait,” he mumbles, “Fuck a nine-to-five, push work state to state.” He drags himself out of bed and hums the rest as it plays out, rubbing his eyes and yawning, exhausted. He’d fallen asleep on top his ridiculously expensive law books and peeled himself off to collapse onto a soft horizontal surface when he woke up to birds tweeting violently at four A.M. It’s 07:03 A.M. now and he blearily rubs his eyes and hopes to God the highlighters he was furiously using last night haven’t stained his face. He has no time for a shower, his day starts absurdly early and he’d really rather be doing anything other than this.

He squints at the calendar Hercules installed on the back of his door. It originally hung over his desk, but he moved it to cover the dent in the wood of the door, not able to look at it, the glaring evidence of the activity that made it, slamming Thomas back into the door so hard the wood split and dropping to his knees to suck his cock straight down his throat, immediately distracting him from any pain. He swallows and rubs his eyes, peering cross-eyed at the calendar and praying that it doesn’t actually say what his brain is telling him it’s saying.

_8 a.m meeting with the gross tall man with the hair, good luck, don’t forget your notes or he’ll yell!!!!!!!!_

He hates his life in this exact moment. He drags himself into the kitchen, shoves some warm bread in his mouth because he doesn’t have the patience to toast it properly, and tries to find something not wrinkled all to hell to wear. He figures no one will notice if he wears the same black jeans four days in a row and finds a reasonably light sweater that he thinks might be a castoff from Gil’s extravagant wardrobe and tugs it over his head. It’s maroon coloured and has sequins on the sleeves which he watches glitter in the light, amused, for a good minute straight before he realises he’s still got to get his shit together and walk to the Yorktown in time for eight A.M. He throws up his hair into the sloppiest bun imaginable and ends up wasting more time trying to pin down his stray flyaways than it would have been just to take the ten seconds to secure it properly, grumbling at himself, and hastily shoves his feet into his sneakers. He almost leaves his keys in the bowl by the door, remembering them at the last second, and jamming his fingers to stop the door from closing.

He nurses his slightly bent and bruised fingers in the elevator, tapping his feet to the music, trying not to feel nervous about seeing Thomas. It’s only been two days, but he feels like an unnameable emotion has been building and building within him and he’s about to burst. He wants to spend time with Thomas, those lazy afternoons on Thomas’ sofa watching him completely botch an attempt at pasta sauce, stealing his socks and curling up on the bed with his work. He wants to touch and kiss Thomas, wants to fuck him, wants to spread him out and lick him open and make him scream, wants to hold him after while he shakes.

It scares him, though. Those few seconds in the morning after the gala, before his brain started to kick in properly, what he thought… Scared him. He bolted. Regret churns within him but his fear outweighs it and his instinct is to turn tail and run, not stay and curl up with Thomas, bask in his warmth, revel in the closeness of his skin.

It’s a nice thought, but it’s not reality. He squashes down the odd swirling feeling that causes in his stomach and steps out of the building, walking briskly down the sidewalk and trying to avoid the stray elbows of his fellow New Yorkers as they rush to the subway. His phone buzzes in his pocket, notifications from Twitter, drunk texts from John, emails from his professors, and he ignores them. He’s sweating slightly in Gil’s sweater and he worries that he doesn’t look appealing in the slightest, and then smacks himself internally for thinking he needs to look appealing. _For Thomas._ What bullshit.

Thomas is waiting for him when he gets to the Yorktown. There’s two cups of coffee on the table he’s sat at, his long legs folded up under the surface, and his fingers are twisted and folded in his lap. His leg is jumping up and down. Alexander tilts his head and wonders if he’s nervous about something.

“Hey,” he says lightly, sliding into the seat opposite and showing remarkable restraint by pulling out his notes instead of immediately wrapping his hands around the giant mug of coffee Thomas has bought for him and guzzling it straight down his hatch.

He thinks he hears Thomas start to say something, the intake of breath that he’s learned to identify as the start of one of their debates or, more recently, just general conversation about anything and everything, and looks up. He wonders if Thomas will call him _darlin’_ again and tries not to dwell on the excitement that sloshes about in his stomach at the thought.

Thomas is staring at him, eyes flat and mouth slightly open, or rather, he’s staring at Alexander’s _neck_ and it’s in that instant that he realises he’s wearing literally nothing to cover up the bruises John gave him. He immediately wants to slap his hands over his skin, cover up the marks, feeling guilty, but he stops himself because he has nothing to feel guilty _about._

His fingers twitch around the coffee cup and he averts his eyes. He and Thomas aren’t exclusive, they’ve never even talked about what they’re doing, they’re just stumbling around in the dark and hoping for the best, so he shouldn’t feel guilty about spending time with John, being intimate with John, he _needed_ it and he’s grateful, not guilty.

That doesn’t mean that the next forty minutes aren’t painfully awkward. Thomas hardly talks and when he does it’s in clipped tones, and he barely looks at Alexander, choosing to stare out the window instead. Their fingers brush for half a second when Alexander passes some of his notes over and Thomas jerks back so hard that the chair creaks. Alexander fills the silence with his best babbling rants, nervous and high-strung, and he keeps having to stop himself from lifting his hand to his neck and scratching where he knows the bruises are until he snaps and excuses himself to the bathroom in a strangled voice.

He splashes his face with water, cold on his heated skin, and avoids looking in the mirror. He felt the heavy weight of Thomas’ eyes on him as he scurried to the bathroom, and usually that would make him preen, make him sway his hips a little and have fun with it, but he knows he fucked up and he doesn’t quite know how to fix it, or if he even wants to fix it.

Is this an easy out? Could he potentially just never go back to Thomas, just let the silence stifle whatever they had until it’s snuffed out completely? He could take this inch and run with a mile and things would go back to normal: they’d go back to bickering in lectures rather than in bed, arguing over defense tactics instead of what takeout to order that night.

Alexander wouldn’t miss it. He wouldn’t miss lying on top of Thomas just to annoy him and waiting for the few seconds it takes for Thomas to give in and wrap his arms around him. He wouldn’t miss stealing Thomas’ books and reading them on his couch at home, wishing he could discuss the paragraphs with him, taking down notes just so he can bring it up with Thomas later. He wouldn’t miss Thomas’ kisses, his full soft lips, his slick tongue, the noises he makes when Alexander tilts his head and pulls on his hair, the way his hips jolt up when Alexander spreads his thighs, the way he squeezes his hands over Alexander’s ass and drags him closer. He wouldn’t miss any of that, he’s sure.

Thomas is gone when he reemerges. He halts in the middle of the café, blinking frantically, like if he looks hard enough Thomas will appear before his eyes. Glancing around the room brings him no answers, but he makes awkward eye contact with one of the staff and they wave him over.

“The guy you were with just left,” they say, pointing towards to door, and Alexander wants to snap that he already _knows_ that since he has _eyes_ and a functioning _brain_ but he restrains himself. It’s not their fault that he’s fucked up.

“Did he say why?” he asks politely instead, resisting the urge to drum his fingertips on the counter impatiently.

They shake their head, dreadlocks flying, and Alexander slumps. Well, shit.

“He left a note though,” they interrupt his self-flagellation and produce a folded up piece of paper from the pocket of their apron and present it to him with a smile. He snatches it up and mumbles thanks, turning around so he can hunch over whilst he reads it.

_Had to run. I’ll text you when to next meet up to go over notes. -TJ_

Alexander reads it, then reads it again, then turns the piece of paper over to see if anything’s written on the back. Nothing. Fuck it all. He sighs heavily and wonders if this means it’s over; whatever he and Thomas had is done.

“Would you like another coffee?” the staff member asks him and he’s shaken back to the present, suddenly aware that a queue has formed behind him at the counter.

“Large black, to go,” he orders and they hurry off to complete their task. He drops a few coins of spare change into the tip jar for them and moves on to hover at the end of the station. He completes his ritual of one cream, five sugars, and smiles at the server before he turns to leave. The note from Thomas burns in his pocket and he crumples it up and dumps it in a bin nearby.

.

 

The rest of the week is run of the mill, lectures and seminars and essays and tutoring kids in the evenings, not much sleep and bad nutritional choices, another movie night with his friends and forgetting the key to his apartment, ending up with him crashing at Hercules’ place. He gets texts from John complaining about Gil watching him while he’s in the art room or whining about Hercules not cuddling him as much anymore. He also gets a teary phone call from John late at night that has Alexander speaking soothingly into the phone, trying to ease his pain, trying not to think about his own. He says _it’ll be okay, Jacky, it’ll all be okay_ over and over until he starts to believe it, and he hopes John does too. It’ll work out, he’s sure of it. Things have a way of doing that, with time, he’s come to learn.

Thomas doesn’t text him and he tries not to think about it. They’ll see each other the next time they have to meet up, and somewhere in his brain comes the whisper that they only have two weeks of their project left. They’ve _been_ seeing each other as well, during lectures, but they’ve not really interacted. Thomas has been… quiet. It’s odd, really, and Alexander finds himself compensating for it by arguing loudly with Burr instead, but it’s nowhere near as satisfying. Burr is like a stone wall of indifference, but Thomas is a stone wall that Alexander knows exactly how to make crumble.

It takes him a few days to notice that he’s left his wrist braces at Thomas’ apartment. He hardly ever remembers to wear them, even though he knows logically that he should and it’s detrimental to his health when he doesn’t, but they’re so cumbersome and annoying that he can’t ever really be bothered. John and Gil and Herc glare him into submission and all but fit the damn things to his wrists themselves, but they’re not around all the time to get him to be a good boy. He remembers them, sometimes, on days that are jam packed and he can predict he’ll be writing a lot: foreseeing the pain that’ll cause his wrists and preventing it means he can write more, which he’s always in support of.

He took them to Thomas’ when he wanted some peace and quiet to get an essay done: he remembers because it’d taken ages to get them off when Thomas had stuck his hands down his pants and Alexander had been left scrambling to return the favour.

Now his wrists are killing him and it’s late, his last student just left, and he’s rolling his wrists and trying to figure out what to do. Does he text Thomas and request that he get them back at some point, preferably sooner rather than later? Does he turn up on Thomas’ doorstep like he used to and just barge in, take what he came for, and leave? Or does he stubbornly do nothing, never get his wrist braces back, just let his carpal tunnels get worse and worse until he can’t even lift a pencil?

None of those options seem overly appealing. The screen of his phone lights up with Twitter notifications as he chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to decide what to do, and he dismisses them all. He’s suddenly exhausted, too tired to get into any kind of debate or discourse tonight. He wants to curl up and sleep for about a thousand years. He wants to be in _Thomas’ bed,_ on his ridiculously soft mattress, surrounded by his mountain of brightly coloured pillows, swaddled safely in his scent. He admits to himself that he wants Thomas’ arms around him, strong and firm, his deep brown skin so satisfyingly pretty resting next to Alexander’s own, soft brown in contrast.

He rubs his eyes and sighs, unlocking his phone and pulling up his contacts before he can think too hard about it.

 _ithink i left my wrist braces at your place , any way i coudl get them back ?_ he sends, and then immediately adds _i think*_ and _could*_ to correct his atrocious spelling. He’s tired, who can blame him.

His phone buzzes in his palm. _Want me to drop them off? Or do you want to come here?_

Alexander thinks about catching the late train, the harsh fluorescent light, the weird smells and empty corridors. He wrinkles up his nose. _if youre offering then you come here,_ he types, and immediately receives back _Cheeky_ from Thomas. He bites his lip to stop his grin from being too wide.

It feels normal, for a few seconds, before he remembers this is the first time they’ve spoken to each other in nearly a week. He scrolls up their conversation, re-reads all their other texts, the long conversations they’ve had over days at a time, just picking up where they left off easy as breathing and talking for hours on end. Once Thomas called him, and Alexander still isn’t sure why, but he rambled down the phone until Thomas told him to shut up and they sat in silence for over an hour after that, just breathing.

He’s still re-reading texts when the doorbell rings. He jerks so hard he actually drops his phone, fingers fumbling inadequately. It hits the floor and he makes a noise like a wounded dog, strangled, frantically clawing at his phone to check it’s alright. Nothing’s smashed, thankfully, and he breathes a huge sigh of relief as the doorbell rings again. He glares at the wood. Thomas has never been a patient man.

Swinging open the door reveals Thomas dangling his wrist braces from his fingers like it’s a carrot on a string, eyes half lidded, looking very unimpressed. He raises his eyebrows, an impressive cock that makes Alexander want to smile, but he doesn’t. It’s weird to see Thomas so close and not touch him, not reach up on his tiptoes and kiss him.

“Thanks,” he says, gingerly taking the wrist braces from Thomas’ grip. Thomas shrugs, casual, and slides his hands into his pockets.

“It’s cool,” he says and they plunge into an awkward silence. Alexander chews on his lip, taking deep breaths, wanting to look at Thomas but also wanting to avoid looking at him at all costs.

“It’s late,” Thomas mumbles eventually and Alexander finds himself blurting out, “Do you want to come in?”

Thomas scrunches up his face unattractively. Alexander wants to laugh at him, wants to press his fingers into the lines around his eyes, but he doesn’t.

“I... Don’t have anything else to do,” Thomas says slowly, mostly to himself. Alexander nods quickly, willing to take it, and holds the door open wider to let Thomas in.

Thomas stops in the living room, clenching his fists open and closed, and Alexander squeezes past him to get to the kitchen. Offer a beverage, his brain tells him, and he opens his fridge only to stare blankly at the empty shelves inside. There’s a few cans of energy drink, but nothing else he can really offer, and definitely no Aloe Vera juice that he knows Thomas prefers. He drank the last of the coconut water a few days ago: the evidence is scattered all over his living room floor. He realises how untidy the place is and wants to crawl into the fridge and just stay there forever. He’s a mess, it’s no wonder Thomas doesn’t want anything to do with him.

“What are you doing?” comes Thomas’ curious drawl and Alexander yanks himself out of the fridge to blink owlishly at him.

“Uh,” he stutters, “Nothing.” He lets the fridge door close. He remembers Hercules bringing around bags of tea at some point, and wonders if he could scrounge around his kitchen cupboards to find it, anything to fill the increasingly terrible silence, and if he fumbling around his cupboards looking for tea gives him something to think about other than this then he’s going to do it.

“Look,” Thomas breaks the silence, “We need to talk.”

Alexander stiffens up immediately, freezing with his arm half way into a cupboard full of crisps. He extricates it slowly and turns around, clenching his jaw and warily looking into Thomas’ eyes. They’re wide and brown and familiar, and Alexander is softening before he knows he's even doing it. He’s slightly horrified that he’s so sweet on this man, endlessly surprised that his feelings have done a one-eighty flip turn in the past month or so; where before he would have gladly strangled him at any opportunity, he only wants to strangle him maybe twenty percent of the time now. It’s amazing, really.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “What about?”

Thomas gestures expansively, an almost flailing motion that sends his hands flying. He looks flustered. Alexander tilts his head at him and waits. Eventually Thomas takes a deep breath and steps forward, close, angling their bodies together. He places two fingers over the marks John gave him on Alexander’s neck, presses in, and Alexander sucks in a sharp breath.

“Oh,” he says weakly.

“Yeah,” Thomas replies, and drops his hand. Alexander feels its absence keenly. “That,” he continues, “I don’t like that.”

Alexander raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” He watches Thomas swallow a full three times before answering.

“I don’t like,” he grits out, “Seeing other people leave marks on you. Who even gave you those?”

“Are you going to go and punch them?”

“I might,” Thomas says seriously. Alexander finds it very hard not to break into a smile.

“To clarify,” he says, putting a finger to his lips and pursing them just to drag it out. Thomas shifts on his feet, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Alexander dallies around making him wait longer but decides against it. He wants to get to kissing Thomas as soon as possible, since it’s apparently back on the table, if he wants it. And he does. He wants it badly.

“You don’t want other people leaving marks on me, meaning either you don’t want marks on me at all which is weird, or you want only _your_ marks on me.”

“The second one,” Thomas says through gritted teeth.

“Are you asking me to be exclusive with you?” Alexander asks, cutting to the quick of it. The speeding beat of his heart is a mixture of fear and excitement and every time it hammers against his ribcage he’s reminded that this is real, this is happening, this is actually happening. It’s a little terrifying, to be fair, but he can feel how much he wants this right down to his bones.

Thomas rolls his eyes, rocks back on his heels. “I’m not asking you to date me,” he says, complete with jazz hands. Alexander huffs. “Maybe just don’t fuck anyone else.”

“And will you be fucking other people?”

“No,” Thomas says, firmly. “I don’t want to fuck anyone else, you’re more than enough to handle, thank you.”

“You’re whipped,” Alexander says in a starry sounding voice, gaping at him. Thomas glares at him, but Alexander just keeps grinning, and he eventually averts his eyes and stares at his shoes, saying nothing. No denial is as good as a confirmation in Alexander’s book.

“I didn’t know,” he says in a small voice, dropping the amusement he feels and showing off his slightly more raw emotions. The confused pain he felt when Thomas wasn’t talking to him, the panicked fear that strangled him every time he thought he could get used to this, to Thomas being there, to wanting to be with Thomas all the time.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, ignoring the fact that he, also, said nothing.

“I didn’t want to make it weird,” Thomas admits awkwardly, his accent coming out thick and slow.

“It was already weird,” he scoffs, grinning at him, tugging on his shirt to pull him closer. Thomas comes easily, hands on Alexander’s fleshy hips, squeezing. “It’s always going to be weird, I think,” he teases, quiet.

“But good though, right?” Thomas asks and Alexander hums, wraps his arms around the back of Thomas’ neck.

“Very good, exceptional, even.”

Thomas cocks an eyebrow. “Outstanding.”

There’s no way Alexander can back down from that challenge. “Remarkable,” he shoots back.

“Phenomenal.”

“Extraordinary.”

“Sensational.”

“Unparalleled.”

“Stupefying.”

Every word brings them closer than they were before, which is an impressive feat, until they’re practically wrapped around each other, intertwined. “Alright, okay, shut up and kiss me,” Alexander breathes, willing to give Thomas the win on this because he can’t wait a second longer to get his lips on him.

Thomas must feel the same because the kiss is eager, sloppy, Thomas groaning quietly into his mouth and sliding his hands around Alexander’s back to palm over his ass. Alexander rolls his eyes internally but arches up into it, rocking his hips into Thomas’ and licking into his mouth simultaneously. He lets his hands trail down Thomas’ body, his arms and ribs and stomach, until he’s fumbling with the zipper on his pants, tugging them down and shoving his hand in, cupping his cock in his hand.

That is, of course, when they get interrupted by John.

He makes the oddest noise in existence, a sort of strangled howl, and drops several empty water bottles all over the floor where they bounce hollowly and roll all over. Alexander and Thomas rip themselves away from each other and goggle at him, stunned.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” John groans, covering his eyes and turning away. “Oh God, that’s so gross, what the fuck, holy shit.”

Alexander would take some offence at that because, hello, duh, he pretty much reeled in the catch of the day with Thomas but then he realises that Thomas’ fly is completely unzipped and that John probably has good reason to be so shocked. He gestures frantically for Thomas to do up his pants which he does with minimal eye rolling, just in time for John to turn back around and continue to gape at them in horror.

Then, cool as a cucumber, Thomas says, “Laurens,” like they’ve just bumped into John at a coffee shop.

“What the fuck,” John says faintly and Alexander silently agrees.

He’s a little distracted, however, when Thomas places his hands on his waist and leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. He can’t help but sway into it, surprised at Thomas’ seeming tenderness, and then he melts completely when Thomas calls him _darlin’,_ in a whisper, like it’s just between them.

Then he’s gone and Alexander spends a few seconds blinking out of his daze. Thomas says something to John, picks up the water bottles and dumps them in the recycling, shooting Alexander a chastising look over John’s head. Alexander concedes that he’s not the tidiest of people, and more than once has Thomas left him fucked out and reeling to go clean up the immediate area while Alexander fights the losing battle that is falling asleep post-orgasm. He almost always loses, and every time they mess around at Alexander’s place he wakes up to a clean living room or kitchen or bedroom or, memorably, _bathroom,_ and Thomas reading a book next to him. Usually it’s his own books, that Alexander has stolen and just not given back, but he’s never commented.

John whirls around and brings him back to the present. “You-” he half yells, seemingly unable to finish the sentence, eyes bulging.

Alexander winces. “I can explain,” he says, and then continues saying things until John slumps and accepts it. He says _no_ when John asks him if he’s lost his mind and means it, he says _I think it might be more than that_ when John asks him if it’s just fucking and means it, he says _I’m enjoying myself, Thomas treats me well, he’s not all that terrible_ and, surprisingly enough, means it.

He gives John a big hug before he leaves, still looking a little like someone’s knocked him around the head, because he’s a good friend and he probably needs it. He’s going through some shit, and Alexander wants to be there for him, but he’s just a bit too excited and nervous and greedy to think about anything other than fucking Thomas, finally, right now. He makes sure to set up a time to grab some coffee though and then John’s on his way and he’s alone in his apartment.

He thinks about his reluctance to get on the subway earlier, his dislike of the rattling carriages and strange people, and grabs his coat. There’s a stop just down the street from his apartment building, if he hurries he can probably arrive at Thomas’ only a few minutes after the man himself.

He bounces his knees on the train ride over, and tries not to think about how happy the man in the reflection of the glass opposite him looks.

.

If Thomas is surprised to see him not half an hour after he left Alexander’s apartment then he doesn’t show it. Alexander, himself, is surprised he’s here, surprised at how much he _wants_ to be here, wants it vehemently, down to his bones. It feels right, Thomas stepping away from the door to let him in, feeling Thomas’ eyes on his back, Thomas’ hands on his shoulders as he helps take off his jacket.

It’s strange in its simplicity: Thomas doesn’t ask him what he’s doing here, and Alexander doesn’t say, but he still ends up flat on his stomach on the bed, not a stitch of clothing on him, while Thomas presses him down and traces patterns on his back with his tongue.

Alexander shivers, gasps, as Thomas licks down the knobs of his spine, humming. The slightly wet trail that he leaves makes his skin feel cold, makes him arch and rub his dick against the sheets. He keeps trying to push his ass back and up, present himself, but Thomas won’t let him, pushes him down flat on the bed with his broad hands and keeps him there. Alexander groans and twists his fingers in the sheets, begging for something, _anything,_ that Thomas will give him.

“All in good time,” Thomas shushes him, petting over his hips. Alexander can feel that he’s hard against his thigh, big cock straining against the fabric of the boxers he’s still wearing, and he wiggles and tries to push back.

“Get the fuck on with it Jefferson,” he demands, petulant. Thomas laughs, the kind of laugh that Alexander knows wrinkles up his nose adorably, and he smiles into the pillow in response.

“Oh, it’s like that is it, _Hamilton?_ ” he teases. He shifts up and massages his fingers into Alexander’s shoulders, his spine, the small of his back, all the way down to the globes of his ass cheeks, pulling them apart. It feels amazing, so close to where he wants it, and he bites down an undignified whine.

He wanted to fuck Thomas tonight, wanted him on his hands and knees for Alexander, but he’s surprised to find that he’s equally, if not more so, happy with this. Not all things go to plan, the fact that he’s here with Thomas at all stands as a testament to that statement, so he’s happy to roll with the punches, as it were.

There’s a slick finger pressing against his entrance when he tunes back in and he groans, long and low, turning his head into the pillow and panting. Thomas is teasing him, still, circling around the rim and getting him wet, and Alexander just wants him to push in, to open him up, so he can finally, fucking _finally,_ get Thomas’ cock in him. He feels like he’s been here forever already, like hours and hours have gone by, time turned blurry under the attention that Thomas has been laving on him.

“Come on,” he growls, wriggling around. Thomas shushes him, pets over the small of his back, and Alexander huffs in frustration. He flings an arm blindly backwards and smacks Thomas until he gives in, listening to Thomas yelp and grumble, but feeling satisfied when he slides his finger in, slow and sweet. It feels so good to be opened up like this, Thomas always takes it so slow, making Alexander come on his fingers expertly, slow and dirty, when all Alexander really wants is to be fucked hard and fast.

Everything about Thomas is slow, except for his brain and his wit. He talks slow, a long drawl that makes it sound like he’s got no pressing matters to attend to, completely unhurried, so much so that he manages to wrap Alexander up in his voice and keep him there for far longer than he ever intended to be kept. He walks slow, a graceful lope, that has Alexander pretty much running around him in circles, his short legs scurrying after Thomas and chasing him down hallways after debates in class when he just won’t let the argument go. He kisses slow, his tongue leisurely mapping out Alexander’s mouth, lips sucking, teeth biting, like he could happily do it forever, and Alexander would happily let him. He’s so used to Thomas’ kisses now, knows what to expect and yet feels shivers of incredulity like that thing he does with his tongue is somehow unexpected and new, every time.

So he shouldn’t be surprised that Thomas is taking it slow now, pumping his finger in and out of Alexander’s ass, continuing to kiss his shoulders and suck marks into his skin instead of stretching him out quickly and fucking him until he can’t see. It’s frustrating, anyway, because although he’s used to being on different pages with Thomas for other things, sex is something they’ve always instinctively agreed on. Maybe they’re well matched, in possession of a chemistry they can’t deny, or maybe they’re both mind readers who don’t know it yet, but either way Alexander wants to yell at him to get a move on; he can’t believe the one time they’re having sex and Thomas is actually going to _fuck_ him is the time when the man decides he’s going to do the exact opposite of what Alexander wants him to.

“Seriously, Thomas, if you don’t fuck me soon I’m gonna get up and find someone who will,” he snaps and Thomas huffs, bites at the back of his neck, and slides two fingers in. Alexander whimpers, clenches down, the thickness of Thomas’ fingers stretching him so satisfyingly that he grinds down on the mattress below him, his dick rubbing on the sheets and his belly.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and Thomas twists his fingers, hooks them around Alexander’s rim to hold him open.

“So pretty,” he hears Thomas sigh, and it makes him flush and preen at the same time, happy and embarrassed all at once.

Thomas slides back in with three fingers and Alexander almost tells him to not bother, since he likes to be fucked just this side of not stretched enough, but it’s so fucking good that he ends up choking on a gasp instead. Thomas keeps it slow and steady, keeps murmuring praise, keeps curling the tips of his fingers and rubbing against Alexander’s walls. His dick twitches and rubs against the sheets, his foreskin pulled back and dripping pre everywhere, making a complete mess, but he rocks with Thomas’ thrusts and groans at the friction, at how wet he is, at how Thomas’ fingers slide right down to the widest knuckle, forcing him open so far it’s almost painful.

He can feel himself getting close and he wants to stop it, wants to demand that he comes with Thomas inside him, clenching around his cock, but he’s hurtling towards the edge so fast that he gets swept up in it, the smooth slow movement of Thomas fucking his fingers into him, the grind of his dick against Thomas’ ridiculously silky sheets, the feel of Thomas pressing him down with his body into the mattress so he can do nothing but take it and take it and take it. Thomas leans in close to his ear, whispers how he’s doing so well, how he’s so hot and wet, how amazing it’s going to feel when he finally gets his cock in Alexander’s tight little hole, and Alexander sobs and comes all over the sheets.

Thomas immediately rolls him out of the wet spot, takes his fingers out of Alexander’s ass, and sinks his cock in while Alexander is still clenching down from his orgasm. He chokes and scrabbles at Thomas’ shoulders, shuddering, overstimulated in the best way, and Thomas hums and rocks his hips in small increments, sliding his length inside until he’s buried to the base. And then he just stays there, holding himself up over Alexander on strong arms, letting Alexander shiver and pulse around his cock over and over, twitching.

“Fuck,” he manages to say once he’s got most of his breath back. “Oh my- Are you gonna fuck me? Now? Please fuck me,” he babbles, staring up at Thomas with wide eyes.

Thomas grins and leans down, brushes a kiss against Alexander’s mouth that has him chasing his lips when he pulls away. “Please,” he breathes again, and Thomas slowly, ever so slowly, rolls his hips.

Alexander feels raw, fucked out and sensitive, his nerves laid out bare and quivering from Thomas’ touch. His dick is still mostly hard against his belly, thick and full, messy with his come. He’d feel inadequate next to Thomas’ long cock if he didn’t know how much Thomas appreciates his thickness. The picture of Thomas on his knees, stuffing Alexander’s cock in his mouth and closing his eyes in pleasure flickers over Alexander’s memories, making him sigh and wrap his legs high up around Thomas’ waist, digging his heels into his back. Thomas rolls his hips again, not thrusting, just grinding, and Alexander whines, unsatisfied.

“Come on, please, I’ve waited long enough,” he says, but he still ends up trying to fuck himself on Thomas’ cock half an hour later, mad with it, while Thomas takes his sweet fucking time, long thrusts that have him almost slipping out of Alexander, his rim clenching in anticipation, and a dirty twist of his hips and he bottoms out.

It would be way worse, he reasons, sweating and squirming on the sheets, if he couldn’t see how much it’s affecting Thomas too. Thomas’ arms shake where he’s holding himself up, his hair and forehead damp with sweat, and he keeps biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut. Alexander’s just waiting for him to snap, to give in and fuck him properly, but his patience is wearing incredibly thin and Thomas has strung him out for long enough.

He digs his heels into Thomas’ back, trying to urge him to go faster. “Please, please,” he begs in his prettiest voice, and Thomas moans and dips his head.

“Not gonna work, sweetheart,” he pants and Alexander presses his fingernails into his shoulders sharply.

“For fuck’s sake, Jefferson, you’re telling me this is the best you’ve got? This is the slowest fuck of my life, I’m about to legitimately fall asleep,” he snaps, heated.

Thomas chuckles, smirks, and ghosts a hand over Alexander’s cock. It jumps under his touch, Alexander’s hips twitching upwards as he tries his best not to moan, and Thomas chuckles again.

“I don’t think you’re in any danger of falling asleep, _Hamilton,_ ” he says and snaps his hips, hard, just once, but it’s enough to make Alexander’s eyes roll back in his head. “I’ve got you right where I want you.”

“I want you to fuck me,” he jerks his hips up for emphasis, “Good and hard, I know you can, it’ll be so good I promise, I’ll make it so good for you, please, just-”

“Next time,” Thomas interrupts him, grinds the head of his dick against Alexander’s prostate to get him to really shut up, gasping and arching and wriggling around on the sheets. Thomas keeps at it until Alexander feels like his whole body is throbbing, so much pleasure battering at his nerves that it’s almost painful.

The one good thing about Thomas fucking him so incredibly slowly is that he can really _feel_ how Thomas fits in him, how he stretches him out and fills him up so good, all the ridges and veins of his cock, how the soft head catches on his rim every now and then and makes him shudder. He wonders what this would feel like bare, getting Thomas’ cock wet, feeling the rush of his come inside him, and he clenches down and groans.

“Next time is too far away, want it now,” he pants, impatient and peevish, unwilling to wait so long to get what he wants. “And anyway,” he continues blithely, “Next time I’m gonna fuck _you,_ gonna spread you out and get you wet and sloppy, lick you out until you cry.” Thomas’ hips falter for a second, the tiniest of slip ups that lets Alexander knows exactly how he’s affecting him.

“What do you say, Tommy? You’d like that? My thick cock stretching you open, you face down ass up, crying into the pillow? That sound good?”

What he’s saying seems to be doing the trick: Thomas’ thrusts have sped up and his eyes are wide, lips parted around heaving breath. Alexander grins, lets his eyes go half lidded, languishes against the sheets and lets the fantasy he’s had so many times spill out of his mouth.

“I’d lick you out so good, so slow, until you’re dripping with it,” and Thomas thrusts hard, slamming his hips into the top of Alexander’s ass. “Yeah,” he grins, “Give you a taste of your own medicine, drive you crazy with it. My mouth on you, my fingers holding you open, my tongue filling you up. Maybe I’d be nice and jerk you off at the same time, get you really begging for it,” and it’s a hint that Thomas immediately takes, hand flying to Alexander’s cock and stroking him from root to tip in a firm grip, sliding down his foreskin and making him moan.

“Exactly like that, yes, Thomas, I’m gonna fuck you like this, just like this, gonna stretch you out and fill you up, have you ride me, maybe,” he licks his lips, “Watch you bounce on my cock.”

Thomas chokes on a groan, dips his head and buries his nose in Alexander’s neck, letting loose and snapping his hips up fast, fucking into Alexander exactly like he’s been craving. He scrabbles at Thomas’ back, clutches him closer, whines when Thomas bites at his neck and twists his fingers over the head of Alexander’s dick at the same time. He slams into Alexander over and over, short sharp thrusts, and Alexander curls up his toes and starts to feel his orgasm creeping up on him, tingling in his spine and prickling over his skin. He arches up, gasps, and spills between their bodies, coming in long waves, clamping down on Thomas so tight that he’s legitimately scared that he’ll never be able to get his cock back out again.

Thomas whispers into his skin, words Alexander can’t hear over the rush of white noise in his ears, can only feel by the soft movement of Thomas’ lips on his neck, and his hips stutter as he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a punched out sounding groan.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he whispers, broken, voice hoarse, and pulls out of Alexander after a long minute that’s just turning uncomfortable, slipping out with a gross wet noise that makes Alexander’s nose crinkle up.

He’s exhausted, limp and weak, splayed out all over the messy sheets. They lie there, pressed together still, sweat cooling and mingling, Alexander’s come tacky on both their bellies, and catch their breath.

“Yeah,” Alexander agrees after a while. “Fuck.”

Thomas huffs a short breath and rolls off him, tying off the condom, and Alexander’s suddenly aware that he only assumed Thomas was wearing a condom and didn’t actually ask him. That’s a bit dangerous, he realises, and blinks blankly at the ceiling. He trusts Thomas though, and the realisation settles him until he’s relaxed back into the sheets, eyes heavy, watching Thomas shift about and start to clean up.

He leans over and kisses Alexander on the forehead, lips firm and comforting, and Alexander tilts his chin up so Thomas will kiss his mouth too. He sighs into it, licks over Thomas’ swollen lips, and hums.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, quiet.

“What for?” Thomas asks, a crinkle appearing between his brows.

“It’s a preemptive thank you,” he says, and smacks Thomas on the ass. “Now go fetch me a bottle of water.”

Thomas flips him his middle finger but dutifully gets up and pads off to the kitchen. Alexander watches him go, grinning, and is fast asleep by the time Thomas gets back with his drink.

.

It actually takes a surprising amount of time for them to get around to Alexander eating Thomas’ ass out and fucking him, despite him clearly spelling out his intention to and Thomas’ evident arousal at the idea. Thomas seems almost _shy,_ which is the weirdest thing Alexander’s ever witnessed, and it endears him to the man a truly stupendous amount, leaving his heart feeling fluttery and achey.

They have sex, obviously, now that they’re both on the same page there’s no stopping them. Their first year of law school is wrapping up, though, and essays and presentations are due soon, so they mostly tend to huddle together on Thomas’ bed or his couch and revise frantically or edit each other’s essays. Alexander’s particularly stressed about one of his classes because the professor _really_ doesn’t seem to like him and he’s worried it’ll affect his grades. Thomas takes it upon himself to keep Alexander’s cock warm in his mouth, just resting it there and sucking occasionally, and Alexander squirms around and tries to concentrate on his essay and not on the heat of Thomas’ mouth, but it’s a lost cause as soon as Thomas starts to hum around his mouthful.

He’s managed to get his hands on Thomas’ ass though, once, two fingers pressing dry against his rim, and Thomas’ eyes went wide and his hips jerked and he came all over Alexander’s belly immediately. Alexander had blinked in surprise, staring down at Thomas’ sticky come painting his stomach. He’d barely touched him.

“Sorry,” Thomas mumbled, ducking his head and looking like he’s going to die of embarrassment.

“No,” Alexander had said quickly, “That was…” and then just didn’t finish the sentence, because he had no idea how he’d end it. Thomas had groaned into the pillow and slunk off to hide in the bathroom, leaving Alexander blinking in shock on the bed.

He’s determined to get further, though, to make good on his promise, and the whole night is free and wide open: his last kid needing tutoring cancelled so Thomas has invited him around for dinner. He’s excited to finally, hopefully, rail the fuck out of Thomas, but he’s also a bit wary. Thomas’ cooking is not the best, so he has their mutual favourite restaurant on speed dial just in case.

He knocks on the door, even though he knows Thomas mostly leaves it unlocked if he’s in the apartment, because he’s polite. Thomas calls him in seconds later, yelling that it’s open, and Alexander gets one foot over the threshold before Thomas is careening around the corner and shouting at him not to put his foot down.

“What?” Alexander asks, foot hovering awkwardly in the air, “Why?”

“Because there’s a bee on the floor,” Thomas says, sounding frantic, and Alexander squints at him.

“You want me to get rid of the bee?”

“No, no, no,” Thomas says quickly, “Just don’t step on him. He was crawling around the floor all sluggish so I gave him some sugar water.”

“You gave the bee sugar water,” Alexander repeats flatly and Thomas nods, curls flying.

“I named him Franklin, please don’t step on him.”

Alexander stares at him, and then at the floor, spotting the bee fumbling about on the polished wood. Sure enough, there’s a tiny pool of water in front of the thing, and its little tongue keeps poking out to lap it up. He shakes his head, steps carefully over Franklin, and crowds into Thomas’ space, going up onto his tiptoes to kiss him hello.

“I’ve got Martha’s on speed dial, so we can order in,” he says and squeezes Thomas’ hips, shuffling around him and heading to the kitchen.

Thomas pouts. “I was gonna cook, you know I was gonna cook,” he whines.

Alexander winces, caught out. “Uh,” he stalls, sticking his head in the fridge and rummaging around for the wine, “I was only joking?”

Thomas huffs and narrows his eyes but goes with it, swatting Alexander on the ass as he passes, and Alexander pours him a glass of wine too to say a silent sorry.

“I thought you have dinner with Madison on Friday’s, what happened to that?” he asks, changing the subject.

Thomas chucks what looks like too much salt into the pot bubbling on the stove. “He’s at his monthly wine and cheese and complain about things meeting, he couldn’t make it.”

“Wine and cheese and complain about things?” Alexander repeats. “That sounds awesome, why weren’t we invited?”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “I rather suspect that we’re the subject he complains about,” he drawls, voice dry, and Alexander pulls a face.

Dinner is… Passable, and Alexander makes sure to make all the right noises to make Thomas smile happily and glow a little. They wash the dishes, together, Thomas up to his elbows in soap suds and Alexander drying them, trying hard not to drop them. It’s horrifically domestic, but he finds a small part of himself that’s enjoying the indulgence.

He doesn’t quite know how they get there, but one thing leads to another and suddenly he’s got the taste of Thomas’ sweet wine on his lips and Thomas himself spread out on the bed, face down, and Alexander’s trying to get him to coax his hips up.

“Higher, come on baby, I know you’re more flexible than that,” he says as he fits his hands around Thomas’ hips and yanks them up, getting Thomas on his knees. “I know you do yoga like the pretentious fucker you are, if this is your downward dog position then you suck at it majorly,” he grumbles and Thomas kicks out his leg and whacks him with his foot straight into the meat of Alexander’s thigh.

“My downward dog is amazing, fuck you very much,” he snarks and Alexander grins.

“I think you mean fuck _you_ very much,” he shoots back, a line that he knows is cheesy but makes Thomas turn and hide his face into the pillow. He rubs his fingers in circles on Thomas’ hips, his thighs, inching towards his ass, trying to get him to relax. He’s as tense as all hell.

“I’m,” Thomas starts and then stops, and Alexander smooths his hands over his thighs like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse.

“Just- Go slow, okay? It can get overwhelming, very quickly, for me,” he stutters and Alexander’s heart thumps.

“Okay,” he says quietly, “I’ll look after you.”

That seems to relax Thomas somewhat, his shoulders slumping and muscles unwinding, but Alexander keeps petting his skin anyway. He loves Thomas’ skin, the deep brown colour that seems endless, meticulously smoothed out by bath products that would probably cost Alexander an arm and a leg to buy. His own skin is rough in places, elbows and knuckles and knees, but Thomas is soft all over, all his hard muscle wrapped up in silk and all but gifted to Alexander in a bright red bow.

Or, he amends internally, a bright purple bow would be more appropriate. Purple is Thomas’ favourite colour, after all.

He bites his lip and carefully parts Thomas’ ass cheeks, exposing his hole. Thomas tenses up all over again and Alexander pets him, squeezes his ass gently, gets him used to it. This is way slower than what he’d planned, but he’s more than willing to accommodate Thomas’ needs, and if Thomas needs him to go slow then slow he will go. Plus, it’ll give him more time to really savour licking him out; there’s nothing like eating someone out for the first time.

Alexander rubs circles into Thomas’ ass, close to his rim but not touching quite yet, and Thomas shudders and carefully tilts his hips up, pushing his ass back. It’s an invitation, and Alexander hesitates for less than a second before taking it.

Thomas is clean, hairless, and Alexander assumes he gets waxed because he’s a fussy pretentious fucker, as Alexander stated before, and he probably showers about six times a day. Alexander doesn’t blame him; Thomas’ shower is the best shower he’s ever had the pleasure to spend time in in his life, he could honestly build a shrine to that shower, and the water pressure is so good that Alexander has legitimately got hard just from the feeling of it running down his body. His shower is crazy good, and Alexander would insist they have sex in it all the time if he wasn’t already in the possession of the knowledge of how fucking amazing Thomas looks like on his knees in the middle of the bed, back arched to push his ass up high for Alexander’s tongue.

It’s blowing his mind, really, and the logistics of eating Thomas out like this on the slippery floor of Thomas’ bathtub seem too much to think about right now, so instead he leans down and sticks his nose against Thomas’ perineum and feels him jolt a little in surprise, like he thought Alexander was just gonna stick his tongue in there and go to town, but he’s got a little more class than that. He wants to make this so good for Thomas, and in turn it’ll be good for him too, especially since Thomas seems so fucking nervous.

He drags his nose up the crease of Thomas’ ass, parting his cheeks with his hands further until he skims over his rim and continues upwards to the small of his back. He kisses the dimples above Thomas’ ass, sweet little pecks, and Thomas sighs prettily and relaxes a little more. He smiles, presses another kiss there, and then presses a kiss over Thomas’ hole. Thomas tenses up again so fast that Alexander decides to pull back, massage his fingers into Thomas’ thighs again, concerned.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, eyeing the tense line of Thomas’ back warily.

“Yeah, yeah, just get on with it,” he mutters, turning his head to rest on the pillow and letting his elbows drop down so he’s not holding himself up anymore. Alexander can see that his eyebrows are scrunched up and the set of his mouth looks unhappy. He takes his hands off Thomas entirely.

“Look, we really don’t have to, if it’s making you uncomfortable we can just stop-”

“No,” Thomas interrupts, then sighs heavily. “I’m just a little nervous- Well. A lot nervous. I’m worried about whether you’re gonna like it or not, and I’m sensitive, and I don’t do this often, and it’s all a bit much.”

Alexander wants to turn him over, wants to brush his fingers across his brow and smooth out the wrinkles of stress. “I’m the one who wanted this,” he says instead, sitting back on his haunches. “I’ve thought about this a lot, I love doing this, and I know I’m gonna love it with you mostly because it’s _you._ ”

Thomas’ skin is just light enough to flush slightly, something that Alexander delights in, and it does so now, turning a dusky sort of pink underneath the brown. He twists his hands into fists in the sheets. “Okay,” he sighs, “Okay, I trust you, get on with it.”

“Yeah?” Alexander asks, just to be sure, but he’s already getting excited again.

“ _Yes,_ seriously, just stick your tongue in my ass, come on,” Thomas snaps, peeling open an eyelid to glare at him, and Alexander shoots him a silly grin and gets right back to it.

He noses along Thomas’ crack again, easing him back into it, but he wastes no time parting his lips over Thomas’ hole and sucking a kiss there, wet, getting him ready. Thomas makes a strangled noise and Alexander is purposefully sloppy with it, letting his spit drip down Thomas’ crack, soaking him until he’s shiny with it.

Alexander leans back, smacks his lips, survey’s his damage. Thomas has his hands twisted tightly into the sheets and his mouth is open, panting, full lips red. His hole is just starting to go puffy, and Alexander can see he’s clenching every now and then. He grins and leans back in, more than content to know that Thomas is actually enjoying this, and his own cock throbs a little in response.

He licks this time, a swirl around Thomas’ hole that makes him whine into the sheets. He varies the pressure, letting the flat of his tongue drag over Thomas’ hole in broad strokes and then poking his tongue a little, wiggling around the rim but not pressing in. Thomas is moaning constantly now, little soft broken sounds that are making Alexander harder by the second. He reaches down and squeezes at the base of his cock, stopping himself from getting too excited, pulling away and breathing against Thomas’ hole for a second.

He sucks marks into the flesh of Thomas’ ass, on his round cheeks and as close as he can get to his rim, then sucks directly on his hole and hears Thomas shout. Thomas is rocking now, pushing himself back and forth into Alexander’s face, and it’s fucking amazing. He’s finding it a little hard to breathe but it’s more than worth it, hearing Thomas’ voice crack around his name, tasting Thomas on his tongue. The smell of sex is thick in the air and Alexander’s addicted to it, to the taste of Thomas’ tight little ass, and dives in for more.

Sliding the tip of his tongue into Thomas’ ass is fucking sensational, and it must be for Thomas too because he makes a sound like he’s actually dying.

“Holy _fuck, Alexander,_ ” he moans, gasping and clenching down on Alexander’s tongue, and he can’t help but moan a little. It’s fucking good, and he pulls out only to push in further this time, Thomas opening up around him so sweetly and groaning loudly.

He keeps talking, keeps swearing and naming deity’s, and Alexander’s got to admit that it’s pretty flattering. He licks into him over and over, intent on dragging more and more noises out of him, and Thomas doesn’t disappoint. He’s louder than he’s ever been when they’ve had sex before and Alexander is revelling in it. Maybe his ass really is that sensitive, so he really doesn’t do this often, and he finds himself moaning and adding a little more force to his licks.

He keeps pulling back slightly to stare at Thomas’ hole, opening up for him a little more every time, until he can slide most of his tongue inside easily. His rim is pink and swollen, wide and abused from Alexander’s tongue, and he thinks it looks beautiful. He fucks his tongue back in, thrusts and wiggles it around, curling his tongue up and dragging in and out of Thomas’ hole in long strokes. His tongue starts to hurt and he’s being sloppy as hell with it, saliva everywhere, but it’s so, _so_ fucking good that he has to squeeze the base of his dick again.

He’s painfully hard, thick and throbbing, his foreskin pulled back to expose the dripping head. He takes a break to just look at Thomas, drink in how he looks right now, ass arched up high and shiny with Alexander’s spit, his toes curled up and fists clenched, how his dick is dripping onto the sheets. He groans and strokes feather light over his length, trailing a finger over Thomas’ heavy balls, watching Thomas whine and rock into the touch. His knees are spread wide, his body slumped further down with how he’s relaxed as Alexander’s continued lavishing attention on him. His yoga is really paying off, Alexander thinks absently, admiring Thomas’ flexibility.

“Look at you,” he breathes and Thomas whines, long and high. “Oh, baby, just look at you. All spread out for me. So pretty.”

He trails a fingernail over Thomas’ ass cheek, pressing in just lightly, leaving a mark that fades fast. Then he quickly smacks him on the ass, watches it bounce, the red mark that it leaves. Thomas yelps but doesn’t protest and Alexander does it to the other ass cheek, watching Thomas’ reaction closely. He scrunches up his eyes and moans into the sheets and Alexander files his reaction away for later use.

He picks up the pre that’s coating the head of his cock, rubbing it on his fingers, thinking. Then he slides two fingers into Thomas’ hole, fucking them in steadily down to the knuckles, and Thomas jerks and shouts and pushes back into it, taking it beautifully. Alexander watches his fingers sink in and out of Thomas for a while, squeezing the head of his cock every time he bottoms out in a rhythm that has him moaning. Thomas is so _tight,_ so slick from Alexander’s tongue, it’s driving him fucking crazy thinking about pushing his cock in there and fucking Thomas until he cries.

He thinks Thomas would probably freak the fuck out if he shoved his dick in his ass without having some sort of conversation about it beforehand, so he locks the idea away and replaces his fingers with his tongue, now that his jaw hurts a little less, and Thomas whimpers and rocks into it.

He fucks into him messily, wet and dirty, licks and sucks and flicks over Thomas’ rim until he’s shaking. Alexander pets his thighs soothingly but doesn’t stop. He wants to drive him crazy, wants to make this so good for him, he’s utterly determined. He can hear Thomas babbling into the pillow, pleading and swearing, and it makes him shudder. He wants to do this forever, wants to eat Thomas out forever, never wants to stop. Thomas’ ass is just too fucking good.

He sucks hard, pushing his tongue in sloppily and curling it up, flicking over the rim and then sinking in again. It makes a deliciously wet sound, obscene, which makes his dick twitch. He loves eating ass anyway, but this is affecting him way more than he thought it would. He’s minutes away from coming, he can feel it, but he wants to make Thomas come first.

He leans back, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. There’s spit running down his chin.

“You can touch yourself, you know,” he says, and his voice is rough. Thomas whimpers into the sheets and his fingers twitch like they want to move but he can’t muster the energy.

“Look at you,” Alexander whispers, “Look at how hard you are. You’re so wet, you’re dripping. You like this, don’t you? What were you nervous about?”

They’re rhetorical questions and all Thomas does is whimper into the sheets but that’s answer enough for Alexander. He turns his head against the pillow, eyes half lidded, and his breath sounds laboured. His cheeks are wet, the pillow damp, and all the breath punches out of Alexander when he realises he’s been crying.

He swallows, hard, and slides two fingers back into Thomas. Thomas’ eyes clench shut and he sobs and a fat tear rolls down his cheek, absolutely gorgeous, and Alexander releases all his breath in a gush.

“Touch yourself, baby, touch yourself for me,” he urges, eyes straying to Thomas’ dark cock, the way it hangs heavy between his legs. Thomas’ hand is shaky when he finally wraps his fingers around his length, and his grip is light, and Alexander follows his lead, fists his cock in the same rhythm, teasingly slow and light. He wishes he could watch Thomas pull himself off whilst eating him out but he can’t so he makes the executive decision that it’ll be better to have Thomas come on his tongue and leans back in.

Thomas groans, and Alexander can see his arm speed up, and he fucks him harder with his tongue in response. Thomas is so open that it’s not hard to fit most of his tongue in, and he licks him deeply, swallowing his taste. He fists his dick in time with his thrusts, feeling how slick he is, making sure his palm skims over the head the way he likes. Thomas is making the prettiest sounds, fluttering around his tongue, and he chokes and sobs and cries Alexander’s name into the pillows.

“Come on, come on,” Alexander whispers, bites softly into the flesh of Thomas’ cheek. “Want you to come on my tongue, come on Thomas, just like that.”

He sucks another kiss to Thomas’ hole, rolls his tongue around the rim, and then ever so carefully scrapes his teeth over where he’s open. Thomas twitches and yelps and Alexander slides his tongue back in just in time to catch him clenching down hard as he comes, throbbing around Alexander’s tongue. It’s incredible, and Alexander moans and twists his fingers frantically over his cock, chasing his own orgasm.

Thomas goes limp, slumps forward into the pillows, but his shoulders shake from his soft little sobs as Alexander continues licking him out. He fucks his tongue into Thomas, his face buried in Thomas’ ass, barely breathing and squeezing his cock hard as he spills over his fist, pitching forward on his knees as his orgasm rocks through him, tremors wracking his body until he can’t stand it anymore and has to lean back on his heels, tipping his head back and carefully dragging out his pleasure.

“Jesus,” Alexander breathes and Thomas groans in agreement, slumping sideways onto the mattress, avoiding the wet spot. Alexander swallows and watches him spread out, the way his ribs show, the hollow space underneath like someone’s carved him out with an ice cream scoop. The tops of his cheeks and his chest are ever so slightly pink and his lips are a bitten red, so irresistible, and Alexander crawls on top of him and kisses him deeply.

His lips and tongue kind of ache, and Thomas is still a little out of it, stray tears dripping down his cheeks occasionally, so it’s actually a pretty terrible kiss, but Alexander still loves it. He’s in way too deep, he knows, but he doesn’t give a damn. This is so good, it’s perfect, he’s never felt more happy and safe and comfortable in his life.

“We’re doing that again,” Thomas croaks once Alexander pulls away and flops onto his chest, boneless. He hums, content.

“Just say the word and I’m happy to accommodate,” he mumbles, meaning it. He taps his fingers on Thomas’ sternum in time with his heartbeat, fast but slowing gradually as he comes down.

“I want you to fuck me,” Thomas whispers. Alexander feels an excited flutter start up in his chest, smiling into Thomas’ skin.

“Yeah?” he asks, eager.

“Yeah.”

“I can do that,” he says happily and Thomas sighs in a rush like it’s a relief.

He feels blissful, lolling in this peaceful spot in Thomas’ bed, curled up on top of him, all their skin rubbing up against each other, listening to Thomas breathe. He doesn’t feel the urge to bolt, to run away and hide, just the quiet surety that he’s where he belongs, for now.

.

Thomas and he finish their project, more than a few arguments breaking out in the last two weeks of their working together, Alexander storming out his apartment at least three times and walking laps around the park until he calms down. He always ends up back at Thomas’, bragging about the cool Pokémon he’s managed to catch and Thomas has missed out on. Thomas always pouts, and Alexander will flick him on the forehead, and they’ll discuss things like civil human beings until they work out a solution.

Alexander coaxes Thomas into going down the risky route, helps him practice what he’s going to say over and over, waits silently at the foot of the bed when Thomas buries himself in under the pillows and doesn’t re-emerge for hours. He twiddles his thumbs for a bit before figuring out that Thomas just needs time and a place he feels safe and comfortable, no loud noises or sudden movements, and sometimes he’ll let Alexander scrunch his fingers in his hair and play with it while he calms down.

It’s weird figuring out how to be _with_ Thomas, rather than just _around_ him. It’s fun though; Alexander has always loved a challenge and Thomas is the ultimate mountain to climb. He has so many weird quirks, little eccentricities that baffle Alexander, but then again he thinks that maybe he has them too.

Thomas won’t eat unless all his food is separate, he only ever pushes up his glasses from underneath the rim and not over the bridge of his nose, he composes late at night when he thinks Alexander is sleeping. He’ll let Alexander sprawl all over him in bed, take up all the space and flop his limbs over every inch available, but he’ll clench his jaw if he sees Alexander sat in his favourite chair in the living room. His books are organised in the strangest fashion, by genre and then how far through them he is and then by how much he’s enjoying them. It gives Alexander the oddest rush of satisfaction when he returns a book to its proper place and Thomas nods at him like he approves, a small smile teasing around the corners of his lips.

Thomas plays him one of his violin pieces, finally, after Alexander pesters him for a solid four days, poking him in the ribs and going on and on about how _turned on_ the violin gets him. Thomas purses his lips and looks sceptical, glaring at Alexander, but Alexander just grins and pouts and whines until Thomas snaps and stomps off to grab his instrument.

Alexander thinks he’ll play something he’ll know, just to shut him up, but what he hears is an original, slow and sweet and soft, a haunting piece that makes Alexander’s chest ache. Thomas looks so lost in it, standing and swaying with the rhythm. He looks like he’s in his own world, his wrist flicking with the bow as it passes over the strings and his fingers pressing down and wavering over the frets. Alexander gets caught up in it, watching him with his mouth open, his heart feeling full and sore and he actually presses his palm to his chest at one point to try and get it to stop aching.

“Wow,” he says after, and Thomas hums, lets his hands fall to his side, cradling the violin and bow carefully, and then turns to crawl into bed, burrowing under the covers. Alexander lets him go, still hearing the soft strains of music in his ears on repeat, until he eventually follows, curling himself around Thomas and pressing his nose into his hair.

He gets to fuck Thomas, eventually, goes slow and careful and makes sure Thomas doesn’t get too overwhelmed. He fits their fingers together, lets Thomas squeeze his hand hard as he gets used to Alexander’s cock inside him, and kisses him almost the whole time they’re fucking.

Thomas rides him, too, seems both more comfortable and less comfortable at the same time with that position. He’s confident, knows how to roll his hips and bounce on Alexander’s cock, knows what he wants and how to take it, but he ducks his head and digs his fingers into Alexander’s belly when he takes it upon himself to tell him how beautiful he looks like this. He eventually just keeps saying it, heaps compliment upon compliment onto Thomas until he’s biting his lip and preening and tipping his head back, putting on a show, coming messily all over his stomach and actually dragging his fingers through it after, sucking them clean. Alexander came pretty much immediately after seeing that, completely unable to stop himself.

He grabbed Thomas’ hand after class, once, forgetting himself for a moment. It had been a terrifying moment, his heart leaping up all the way to his throat, and both he and Thomas froze, until Thomas started walking again, their hands swinging between them.

He’d said he wasn’t asking Alexander to date him, and yet they end up going on dates anyway. Thomas takes him to fancy restaurants and drinks expensive wine and talks loudly while Alexander sits and fingers his collar uncomfortably, twisting his hands in his lap, ordering the house salad rather than anything more substantial. Thinking about how much this all costs makes him sweat a little, feeling distressed and awkward, unable to pay Thomas back. Thomas notices, after a while, and the next time they go out he takes him to a pizza place where you order by the slice, and he and Alexander sit in a booth at the back and giggle, their mouths full of greasy cheese and tomato sauce, their feet tapping against each other under the table.

It’s surprising how easy it is to fall into it, so easy in fact that Alexander invites Thomas to the next movie night without even thinking about it. He doesn’t think about it until he swings open the door to greet Thomas and he hears three people choke on various drinks behind him.

“Ah,” he says eloquently, “Woops.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, leans down to kiss him, and then swans off into the kitchen in search of alcohol, leaving Alexander to awkwardly stare at his friends and hope to God no one starts screaming.

“Finally,” Hercules says eventually, and all three of them go back to the weird cuddle pile they’ve created on top of Alexander’s relatively small sofa, their bodies squished up and knees and elbows flying everywhere, but they look content, so he leaves them to it.

Receiving a text from John, a picture him winking at the camera while Gil and Hercules make out in the background, had made Alexander almost swallow his tongue. He’d shoved the phone screen into Thomas’ face, and Thomas had squinted, taken off his glasses, and said, “Huh,” and that was that.

It’s nice, having Thomas there for movie night with his friends. He remembers when Thomas first joined them, remembers yelling that _barely is too much_ when it came to spending time with him, and marvels at how differently he feels now. They sit on chairs far away from each other, trying not to make it weird for everyone else, until John rolls his eyes and begs them to stop eye fucking each other and just cuddle already.

He and Thomas share a long glance, before Thomas shrugs and opens his hands, and Alexander’s across the room in less than a second, crawling into his lap and dropping all his weight down heavily.

“Oof,” Thomas grumbles, readjusting him to fit better on his lap, “You weigh a fucking tonne, Alexander.”

Alexander hums, wriggles his ass into Thomas’ lap, hears his breath hitch. “You love it,” he shoots back, smug, and Thomas kisses the side of his head and says nothing.

It’s nice to lead Thomas by the hand to his bedroom once the movie’s over, waving goodbye to his friends. It’s nice to pull out a pair of Thomas’ pyjamas from his drawer as well as a pair of his own, and crawl into bed with him, each on their respective sides. It’s nice to stick his sock-clad toes against Thomas’ bare calves, to curl up under his chin, to feel Thomas kiss his hair. It’s nice to fall asleep just like that, no sex, just touching each other sleepily, whispering goodnight.

It’s nice to check his Instagram after several weeks of abandonment and find that Thomas has followed him. Alexander mostly posts black and white photos of his friends doing stupid shit, because they’re all actually rather popular on Instagram and he likes to tease them. Gil’s famous because he’s a model anyway and his following is huge; Hercules is in the process of becoming the owner of his own bespoke tailoring shop and his designs are always popular when he posts them; John has an Instagram where he posts videos of him mixing paint and gives them weird names, and people go crazy for it. He let Alexander name a few before he put a stop to it, not appreciating the overly sexual names he came up with for the paint colours he liked and the viciously slanderous ones he named after politicians he didn’t like when the colour pretty much resembled actual shit.

Thomas’ Instagram is a pretty typical rich kid set up, and lots of people follow him because he actually knows how to take photos and has a good eye for pretty things. It’s not all pictures of expensive wine, face products, and brand clothing: there’s ones of the books he’s reading, of Madison looking slightly queasy and grimacing at the camera, of flowers and trees and long stretches of rolling fields. One of the more recent ones is of his bed, and Alexander’s mouth drops open when he realises that he’s in it, his back to the camera, snuggled up in the mountain of pillows that Thomas keeps on his bed, his hair a mess. He can tell it’s him because you can just make out the tattoo on his shoulder blade, and he honestly doesn’t think Thomas has had anyone else in his bed recently. He hopes so, anyway.

The caption says, _the hobbit in his hobbit hole,_ and Alexander snorts out a laugh and carefully hits the like button. It’s sweet, in a weird way, and it makes his heart feel bubbly and weird. He rubs at his chest, unused to the sensation, and tries to breathe.

They get an A+ on their project, and Washington shakes both their hands at the end. It’s a goddamn relief, though they’ve still got to wait on results of other essays and final exams, but it’s nice to feel happy for a second or two. Thomas lifts him up and spins him around once Washington’s back is turned and he laughs, free and happy, and hugs him tight.

“What are you doing this summer?” Thomas asks him one night, tracing patterns on Alexander’s bare back with his fingers.

“Um,” he manages, snapped off the edge of sleep by Thomas’ voice. “There’s an internship online that I’ve applied for, proofreading and the like. Paralegal stuff, mainly, but it’s good experience.”

“So you’re staying in New York then?”

Alexander shrugs, languid. “I could potentially go anywhere, as long as I have my laptop.” He yawns. “But it’s not likely I’ll leave. I’ve not got the money to go.”

“Oh,” Thomas says, quiet. Alexander turns his head to look at Thomas’ face. He’s staring at the ceiling, looking slightly tense. Alexander kicks him under the sheets.

“Why, what are you doing over the summer?” he asks.

“There’s remodelling going on at Monticello, so I’m heading back home to oversee everything,” he says slowly.

Alexander stills, catching on to why Thomas is so tense. “So, not staying in New York, then,” he clarifies.

“Not in New York, no.”

“Oh,” Alexander echoes. “Okay.”

He drops his head onto the pillow, huffing. He’s not going to be able to sleep in this bed over the summer, he realises, he’ll have to wait until Thomas moves back. Or, will they even continue this thing after summer? If neither of them are around, and they’re not officially dating, will it fizzle out as quickly as it started up, or will they just pick up where they left off once the fall term starts? His chest aches just thinking about it.

“You could,” Thomas starts, interrupting the silence, then licks his lips. “You could just… Come to Monticello with me, spend the summer there. Bring your laptop, do your work. There’s places to go and the capital's not far that away, it could be fun.”

“We’d be there together,” Alexander murmurs, "For the whole summer," and Thomas nods slowly.

“Yes, we would.”

Alexander hums. “I’d like that.”

“You would?

“Yeah.”

“Okay then,” Thomas says, and he goes back to drawing patterns on Alexander’s skin.

Alexander gazes at his face, at the small smile on his lips, at his long eyelashes and ridiculously neat beard, and thinks that this is a wonderful way to fall asleep. He could never have predicted that this would happen, feels knocked a little off his axis, taken aback by how much this man has changed him, but he feels at peace, too.

There’s nowhere he would rather be right now than here with Thomas, and he stretches out on his side of the bed, and watches Thomas’ face until he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave feedback or die i did not write this for u 2 ignore the kudos button


	6. james

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "James can remember a time when he wasn’t Thomas Jefferson’s best friend."

James can remember a time when he wasn’t Thomas Jefferson’s best friend. It wasn’t all that long ago, if he thinks about it. He’s spent more time without Thomas than he has with, and yet the man has weaseled his way into James’ life so fully he can no longer imagine living it without him.

Without Thomas there would be no spread of bath and body products all over the sink in his bathroom, there would be no endless episodes of Chopped set up to play on James’ TV, there would be no tiny tomato plant on his windowsill that he barely remembers to water. Without Thomas he wouldn’t own a collection of hats that he never wears, he wouldn’t have a scar on his knee from a skateboarding incident they were both too old to partake in, he wouldn’t have learned how to cook in order to make up for Thomas’ utter lack of skill in the kitchen.

Without Thomas, he muses, he probably wouldn’t study as hard as he does. Oh he’s got ambitions, and drive, and determination, but he doesn’t think he would quietly shine as much as he does if Thomas weren’t there to urge him on. Thomas is brilliant and witty and has so much potential bubbling inside him it’s hard to stop him from boiling over like a pan that’s been left on the stove for too long, but he needs guidance. James is that guidance. He pushes Thomas in the best direction with a firm hand on the small of his back and encouraging words spoken in his ear and watches him thrive.

It’s satisfying, being behind the scenes, and he enjoys being the one to pull Thomas’ strings, but not in an _evil_ way. He’s not _manipulative._ He’s… _Proud_ of Thomas. Like a dad whose kid doesn’t think he can win the science fair but comes out with the blue ribbon and the trophy at the end, beaming from ear to ear. The dad knew his kid could do it all along, and James feels the same way about Thomas. Thomas is like a flower that won’t quite bloom on its own; he needs James to coax him along.

That metaphor would work a lot better, he thinks, if he wasn’t so bad at keeping the one plant Thomas has gifted unto him alive. He squints, pinches a little green leaf between his finger and thumb, and sighs.

It hadn’t always been like this. In the beginning, James had taken one look at Thomas and chalked him up and a preppy rich kid who could probably never put his money where his mouth is. He doesn’t know what Thomas saw in him when they first met, but it was enough to make the man practically hound him for his friendship.

James then adjusted his opinion, redesignated Thomas into the category of men who go after things they can’t have simply because they can’t have them. He watched Thomas buy gifts for his other friends, coffee and hand soap and expensive scarves, but none of those friends ever lasted. Thomas always sat next to him in lectures, always pushed a pen across the desk as if James didn’t already have twenty inside his backpack. They were expensive pens, James could tell from the brand and the way the ink would flow from the tip, and they were gifts dressed up in an everyday situation in order to make them look like not-gifts. James let him give him the pens, then went to the library and left them on the shelves for other people to find and use.

It’s not like James doesn’t also come from money. It’s just that James doesn’t _flaunt_ it like Thomas does, and he does it so casually that it seems like he genuinely doesn’t think about it. He’s seen Thomas drop a hundred dollars on body products that essentially boiled down to a one dollar tub of vaseline anyone could buy in their local supermarket. Thomas wore, and still does wear, ostentatious clothing and accessories that scream his wealth and, in the beginning, it rubbed James the wrong way.

Thomas, though, was a force to be reckoned with. He’d set his sights on James and, apparently, was not going to stop until he got his prize. James snapped one day and asked him what the fuck he was doing and Thomas had blinked and said, _wooing you,_ like it was the most obvious thing in the world. James remembers staring at him like he’d grown a second head and angrily limping off, his cane hitting the floor with much more aggression than usual, and hearing the sound of Thomas scampering after him like a puppy.

Why the fuck Thomas wanted to be friends with him he’ll never know, and he’ll never ask. He comes from an old family and old money, sure, the Madison name carries a lot of weight, but he’s always been and always will be sickly, always coughing, always limping, always looking like he’s on the verge of throwing up. He spent a lot of time lifting weights as a teen, trying to compensate for an internal immune system that wouldn’t cooperate by making his external body as attractive as it could get, but he’s still short and fat. Thomas towers over him, even if James is broader in the shoulders, and it’s a little intimidating, really. There’s nothing overly enticing about James other than his money and his brains, and one of those things you would only be privy to if you were already James’ friend, so his money had to be it.

But Thomas never brought it up. He just carried on eagerly courting James’ affection, wearing down at him until James’ irritation melted somewhat into _fondness._ It melted even further when he actually started paying attention to Thomas and realised that a lot of his flash and confidence was a flimsy charade to hide his anxiety.

Thomas didn’t like the be touched by strangers, he didn’t like loud noises, he didn’t really like to get out of bed if he could help it. He’d practice what he was going to say before saying it, practice the way he’d offer a handshake, even practice the way he was going to enter the room, over and over, until he felt that he’d got it under his control. He’d pace constantly and chew at his fingernails if James didn’t smack his hands away from his mouth in time. Sometimes his hands would shake for no discernible reason that James could parse and his eyes would take on a hunted look, like he was two seconds away from bolting. It made James want to _look after him._

Not pity, never pity. He’d never pitied Thomas. Understanding, is what it was. Sympathy. James liked to be quiet and fly under the radar and then snatch the rug from under his rival’s feet in triumph, glowing in the success of surprising everybody by coming out of nowhere. Thomas talked big and people _expected_ things of him, so no wonder he was so anxious all the time. That pressure to perform, to get it right first time, must have been, and still probably is, crushing. The stress it must cause him not to cave, not to fall apart when it really counts, to always achieve things to the highest standard, must make him feel like Atlas, holding the sky up so it doesn’t crash into the earth.

He reassessed Thomas, quietly written him into the column in his head and heart marked _friend,_ but continued to hold out because he’s a stubborn motherfucker, through and through. He let Thomas take him out for meals, let Thomas invite him around for dinner parties with expensive wine and fancy suits and slumber parties with cheap wine and pyjamas, let him sit next to him in the library and annoy the fuck out of him by humming obnoxious songs under his breath until James kicked him under the table, waiting ten minutes and then starting up humming all over again.

It was pretty worth it, though, when nearly a full year into their acquaintance James decided to add Thomas as a friend on Facebook. Thomas turned up at his door, eyes wide and a little wet, holding the screen up to James’ face with a shaking hand, and James had said, _are you going to accept or not,_ and Thomas had hugged him so hard he’d stumbled backwards and dropped his cane.

Thomas had pretty much wormed and wriggled his way into every corner of James’ life until he is where he is now, owning a key to James’ apartment and barging in whenever he likes.

“‘Sup Jemmy,” he calls, clapping his hands on James’ shoulders and shaking him a little. “You’ve not killed the plant yet, I see.”

James hums. “I must be doing something right. The little guy is sprouting.”

“See, you call him ‘little guy’ but won’t actually give him a name,” Thomas waggles his fingers under James’ nose until he bats them away. “Give the poor dude a name, he deserves it if he’s survived this long.”

James pushes him away and walks over to the kitchen, pouring himself some cold water. His leg’s doing alright today, barely any limping, and it feels pretty good not to have to use his cane. When he turns around, Thomas is staring at him, head tipped to the side, all his curls flopping down with gravity.

“What,” James says flatly.

“I was thinking of things you could name the tomato plant. You can’t name it Tom, obviously, since…” and he gestures to himself with a smirk. “I was thinking maybe Sol, for the sun.”

James stares at him. Thomas shifts on his feet.

“You know, short for Solomon. I thought it would be… Cute.”

James blinks slowly and takes another sip of his water. “Why does it have to be a boy’s name, plants don’t have gender, right?”

Thomas’ brow furrows. “Angie told me names don’t even have gender, so I guess you could call it whatever you wanted.”

“What about Alex, that’s gender neutral,” James suggests, and Thomas’ lip curls.

“Reminds me too much of Hamilton,” he says mulishly.

“Well it’s not your plant, it’s my plant, and I want to name it Alex,” James says, and breezes back into the living room, crossing over to the windowsill and turning the plant so it’s facing the sun. “Hello, Alex,” he coos and hears Thomas make a disgusted noise behind him.

“ _I_ _’m_ the one who gave you that plant, I won’t have you name it after Hamilton,” he says, sounding huffy. James doesn’t have to turn around to know that his arms are crossed tightly across his chest and he’s scowling.

“What’s wrong with Hamilton?” James asks mildly, wondering how long Thomas is going to go on a rant with an opening like that and whether he can discreetly time it or not. There’s a pool going at his wine-and-cheese-and-complain-about-things club about how long Thomas and Alexander can talk about each other, uninterrupted, and he thinks maybe he can win it with this.

Thomas makes a noise like a frustrated teenager and flops on the couch, picking at the cushions. James raises an eyebrow at him.

“What _isn’t_ wrong with Hamilton,” he mutters, but doesn’t expand on the sentence. James waits him out for a full two minutes before realising he’s not going to continue. He wonders if he can win the pool with the _shortest_ amount of time Thomas has talked about Alexander, and goes over to sit on the couch next to him.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

Thomas picks at the cushion harder. James wants to tell him to stop, but he appreciates that Thomas needs some quiet right now, and Thomas’ll just buy him a new one anyway.

“I’ll be fine,” he says in a small voice.

“Did something happen at Lafayette’s movie night?” he asks, knowing he’s probably pushing it.

Thomas stills and then jumps up all at once, slapping his hands on his thighs. “Right then, you’re naming the plant Sol, yeah? And what’s for dinner, I can attempt to cook something or we can order in if you want to save your kitchen from burning down,” he babbles as he meanders into the kitchen, his back a long line of tension but his voice breezy. He’s faking it, James knows.

“I’ll name the plant Sol,” he says, and then heaves himself up off the couch too. “And stay out of my kitchen, here, look through the take away menu draw,” he grumbles, smacking Thomas’ hands away from the pantry door and ignoring his faux-innocent face.

He doesn’t know it yet, but that’s the beginning. That moment, right there, on James’ couch in the afternoon sun, arguing about what to name a tomato plant, is the beginning.

He knew Alexander was going to be at that movie night, felt a little apprehensive at the idea of Thomas spending time with the man without James being there by his side. He knows how much Alexander makes Thomas feel nervous, even if he does manage to forget himself for the few minutes he and Alexander snipe at each other viciously, aiming for the throat. He knows that Thomas gets to shake a bit of anxiety away when he’s with Alexander, arguing with Alexander, yelling at Alexander, but it all comes bounding back eventually. James likes to be there to give him what he needs when it does, and it seems Thomas needs to not talk about it right now. He wants to know what happened, always wants to know about the things that affect his friend and cause him worry, but he respects Thomas’ need for silence. He’ll come to him eventually.

.

Thomas doesn’t come to him eventually. James waits him out and waits him out and Thomas’ silence just gets worse.

He comes and drapes himself all over James in the library one day, sighing loudly and digging his chin into James’ shoulder, until James gets so fed up that he has to close his book and catch all the best Pokémon in the park just to annoy Thomas right back. Thomas complains about having to spend time with Alexander for their project and James wants to say that he’s not so bad, he and Alexander have worked together before, and sure, the man works in a flurry of madness and hyperactive babbling, and he remembers very clearly how he needled James into writing way more than they actually needed to, but Thomas will survive.

He whines and pouts and drags his feet and James rolls his eyes and explains how his and Alexander’s relationship works, in very small words, so Thomas can understand clearly. They’re not enemies, they’re not rivals, they’re… Practically married. They _look forward_ to seeing each other, Thomas is always eager to talk to Alexander even though their talking equates to fighting, and they both get this _look_ in their eye, a sort of gleam, that tells James exactly how much each of them enjoy it. If he didn’t know any better he’d say they were in love, in a strange way, in a way that makes his stomach feel sort of queasy.

He doesn’t know it now but he’ll eat those words in a few months time. For now, he lets Thomas loop their arms together and grumble about his lack of skill at Pokémon Go until James claps his hand over his mouth and attempts to mollify him by teaming up and taking down a nearby Gym. They only hold it for about three minutes in total, but it makes Thomas beam from ear to ear and skip down the sidewalk, so he guesses it was worth the Super Potions he had to use up on his felled Pokémon.

.

Things get a bit weird from there. Thomas has to go and meet up with Alexander every so often and he practically wears a dent in the wood of his floor pacing up and down, practicing what he’s going to say. James watches him with quiet eyes and doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t say anything when Thomas comes back and flops face first onto his bed that’s more pillows than mattress either.

He disappears for an hour, the combination of knowing that Thomas needs the quiet and his own unwillingness to have his reading interrupted by Thomas groaning into the pillows for long minutes, as he’s learned he’s wont to do with experience, has him up and out of the apartment as soon as he sees Thomas’ face. He comes back, eventually, and sits on the edge of the bed, patiently turning the pages of his book until Thomas peels open his eyes and asks him to read to him.

He’s agitated and jumpy for the next few days, tense, his jaw clenched painfully, and James doesn’t bother to ask what’s wrong. Clearly it’s something to do with Alexander, and he’s not sure if he wants to open that can of worms just yet. He stands by his plan of letting Thomas come to him, but Thomas, time and time again, fails to talk to James at all, so he’s left trying not to snap at a moping Thomas whilst also trying to give him space.

There’s one afternoon where they’re getting on with their work quietly, James highlighting anything that could be of reference in his textbook (which turns out to be damn near _everything_ ) and Thomas doing research on his laptop for his and Alexander’s project. He’s got his glasses perched on the end of his nose, the thick ones that he only wears when he doesn’t give a shit who sees him, which is basically never. Only ever really with James, and maybe sometimes Angelica. For everything else he wears thin wire frames that complete his expensive hipster look, and James knows for a fact that they don’t help his eyes at all.

Thomas’ phone dings every ten minutes or so, and every time it does his jaw becomes more and more stiff. He clicks the end of his pen so many times that James has to kick him under the table.

“Sorry,” he says, looking contrite. James hums, stares at him until Thomas bites his lip and looks away, but he doesn’t say anything.

He gets up some time later to get some juice and nuts to keep them going, and his phone goes off again whilst he’s in the kitchen. It’s not like James reaches over specifically to read who’s texting him and what it says, but he’s pretty good at reading upside down.

 _Ham Man,_ the contact reads, and James rolls his eyes. _Stop fucken ignroing me u giant asshole,_ the text reads and James winces. That’s some terrible spelling right there.

Another text comes in, and James quickly looks up to make sure Thomas isn’t coming any time soon, and reads the next text. _If this is about hwat happene d at gil’s,_ it reads. James sits back, wonders what the fuck he’s referring to, and immediately leans back in when the phone dings again, and again, and again. _u know_ , the next text reads, then: _on gil’s couch,_ and then: _i kno u remember because u were still laughng about shoving me off the couch an hour nto breakfast,_ and James’ eyebrows rise so high on his forehead that he thinks they’re in danger of coming right off.

 _What the fuck,_ his thought process manages, before Thomas comes swanning back into the room with two glasses, one of Aloe Vera and one of orange juice, clutched in his hands and a bag of peanuts pinched between his teeth. James smiles at him and waves off the offering of nuts, taking a sip of his drink, still reeling.

“Your phone went off again,” he says eventually, “A few times actually.”

Thomas glances up at him, then down at his phone, hitting the home button and reading the influx of texts on his screen. When he looks back up again his eyes look a little bit wide. Scared.

“You didn’t read them did you?” he asks, voice strained.

James could say yes, he could say he accidentally read them because he was curious and they were right there, and then he could apologise and just not ask about whatever the hell happened at Lafayette’s movie night. _Or,_ he could do the exact same thing but follow it up by asking about whatever the hell happened at Lafayette’s movie night, making sure not to take any sips from his drink lest he spit juice all over his textbooks. Or he could lie. Save himself and Thomas some grief and just… Avoid the conversation altogether.

“No,” he says, and Thomas deflates in relief. James bites his lip and clears his throat. “Sounds urgent though, aren’t you going to reply?”

Thomas swipes his finger across the phone screen, hovering over the passcode buttons, before clicking the screen off and shoving the phone half the way across the table. “No,” he says, clicking the end of his pen and taking a deep breath, going back to his laptop. His phone dings again and both James and Thomas purposefully don’t look at it.

James stays the night in Thomas’ spare room, swaddled in a soft comforter and reading a book with the little book light Thomas got him for the first birthday he had when they were finally, officially, friends. Thomas got him other things too, but James likes the book light the best. He licks his finger and turns the page, reading to the end of the chapter, and then turns off the light and slides down the mattress until he’s flat on his back with the comforter pulled over his head.

When he closes his eyes, Alexander’s texts float to the forefront of his mind. He sighs and turns them over, thinking and thinking and thinking, until he can think no more. Something happened, obviously, something to do with Lafayette’s couch. The reference to Thomas shoving Alexander off the couch implies they were on there together, and the fact that Thomas so obviously does not want to talk about it means that it was more than just sitting on opposite ends and ignoring each other.

James wonders what could have happened. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had slept together. Thomas and Alexander have always been moving towards _something,_ either a catastrophic explosion or… Something more like this. Honestly, he doesn’t know what the fuck could have happened _other_ than them sleeping together. He doesn’t really want to think about it, but there’s nothing like the subject of sex to get Thomas all flustered. He ducks his head and shuffles his feet and looks supremely uncomfortable, sort of in the exact way he’s been looking lately.

James _really_ doesn’t want to think about it. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to forget about it all. So Thomas and Alexander are probably fucking, that’s okay, that’s fine, it’s not like the sexual tension between them wasn’t thick enough to cut through with a knife. James knows, deep down, that he expected this to happen, at some point.

He didn’t expect Thomas _not_ to tell him about it, though.

.

“I’ve booked a private room at the library,” Thomas informs him the next morning, spooning out only slightly burned eggs from the pan and licking his thumb. James grunts at him, eyes only half open, sipping at his tea. Thomas hums, stretching his arms above his head, still holding the pan. It makes his abs ripple, because Thomas is the kind of guy who sleeps without a shirt, and James watches in bemused fascination as a stray piece of egg slides down the pan and lands on his chest.

“Ow, shit,” Thomas hisses, flicking off the hot egg and rubbing at his chest. James very carefully doesn’t laugh at him.

“Does that mean I can study in peace today?” James asks, ignoring the whole scenario that just unfolded in front of him entirely.

“Sorry if I annoyed you yesterday,” Thomas says, looking contrite. James shakes his head automatically.

“You didn’t-”

“-Yes I did-”

“No, you didn’t,” James glares. It’s only half a lie. James is pretty used to Thomas and all the noises he makes when he’s bored. It’s just slightly frustrating that Thomas’ boredom so often aligns with James’ study time, but he’s learned to put up with it.

James eats his eggs and squints at the newspaper, pretending to read the finance pages until Thomas meanders off to his room and he can turn to the comics section. They go about their morning routines, silent and comfortable, moving around each other with ease. It’s a dance they’ve done many times before, one that they’re used to after years of doing it. Thomas calls over his shoulder for James to water his plants before he leaves and James makes a mental note of it, hoping that he doesn’t accidentally somehow kill all of Thomas’ carefully cultivated plants by watering them with poison or something.

He studies, makes grilled cheese in Thomas’ fancy grill and doesn’t burn his fingers. He hesitantly steps onto the balcony and waters Thomas’ plants, squinting into the midday sun and ignoring Thomas’ neighbours doing questionable things on the roof across the way. His leg starts to act up right before he’s due on campus for a lecture and he glares at it as if it’ll magically get better, and then hobbles off to grab his cane.

He plans to go back to his own apartment after class, but he’s left his textbooks at Thomas’, so he walks through the park, ignoring the pain in his thigh and the way his breath becomes a little weak, and falls gratefully into the elevator.

Thomas is sat on the couch when he gets in, touching his lips and staring into space. James narrows his eyes at him and lets the door fall shut behind him with a slam just to watch Thomas jump.

“How was your day?” James asks carefully.

“Oh,” Thomas says, “Fruitful. Alexander and I-,” he breaks off, swallowing. “Got a lot of work done, a lot of good work, all done, which is good,” he finishes awkwardly, then bites his lip and immediately touches them again with his fingers.

James can read between the lines. He and Alexander fucked. He tries not to gag and concentrates instead on how Thomas just said _Alexander_ instead of _Hamilton._ Thomas has never called him Alexander before, not to James’ knowledge. It’s weird, but he guesses that it’s normal to drop the surname hostility once you’ve been that intimate.

He hikes a thumb over his shoulder, awkwardly wanting to escape this conversation. “Gonna grab my books and get going,” he says, limping to the study.

“You’re not staying for dinner?” Thomas calls, and James comes to a standstill, wondering how he can squirm his way out of this.

“Uh,” he stammers, “Do you want me to?”

Thomas’ phone chimes then, and James watches him open whatever message he’s received and turn as red as his dark skin will allow. “Um,” Thomas says, sounding strangled, and James feels a bit like he’s died when he realises Thomas must have just gotten a text from Alexander. A booty call, maybe. Good fucking Lord.

“I was just gonna study more,” James says quickly, nipping the idea that he should stay right in the bud.

“And you wouldn’t want me there for that, makes sense, sounds good, you can just,” he waves his fingers about, not making eye contact and still looking a bit red.

“Sure,” James says, and goes to get his books.

“Thanks, Jemmy,” Thomas says as he reaches the door, and he turns back and watches Thomas twist his fingers together and bounce his knees up and down. His phone vibrates against the table, a call this time, and James can see from the large font that it’s Alexander.

“You should take that,” is all he says, and Thomas shoots him a relieved look, mouths _thank you_ again, and lifts the phone to his ear.

“Yours or mine?” he hears Thomas ask right before he shuts the door. He stands in the hallway and sighs, readjusts the books under his arms, and waits patiently for the elevator. He hopes to God that he doesn’t bump into Alexander on the way down.

So Thomas and Alexander are an actual thing, that’s actually happening. He sort of wishes he was more shocked, but he can’t find it within himself to really feel the emotion. He’s not shocked. This has been simmering on the back burner for a long time, and James has watched the whole thing play out and never said anything, mostly because anytime James brought up the subject of Alexander, Thomas would go off on a rant.

Good for them, he thinks. He hopes he doesn’t walk in on them fucking, because that would be terrible and scar him for life, but he hopes they’re happy with each other. Thomas deserves to be happy, he deserves that flush that comes with new love, even if this love isn’t very new at all, has been a long time coming.

He hopes that Thomas will get to a time when he’s comfortable enough to tell James what’s going on, and he hopes he gets to it soon. It would suck if the whole thing crashed and burned and James has to pretend that he doesn’t know while Thomas mopes about and probably cries into his many pillows. Thomas is an emotional guy, gets attached easily and quickly, but he’s nervous and awkward and stubborn on top of all of that. James has a feeling that this will be a good thing, so long as neither of them fuck it up.

.

They may or may not be fucking it up.

James isn’t exactly sure, because Thomas had seemed to be happily glowing and walking around like he was either constantly high or he was having an orgasm that just never ended, and now he’s glum and frowning all the time, biting his fingernails and staring off into space for long minutes before snapping out of it and scowling at himself.

James has no clue what went down at that gala, but it had to have been something bad. James himself didn’t go, even though he was invited, because he contracted a head cold so strong he honestly thought he’d never breathe without tasting phlegm again in his life. Thomas had shown up at his apartment with several garment bags over his arm, giving James a miniature fashion show and demanding that he help choose what he should wear, and James chose the one that hurt his eyes the least and shoved him out the door before Thomas could work himself into a nervous breakdown.

“I’ll bring tea for you tomorrow morning,” Thomas pouted while James bashed on the back of his knees with his cane, trying to hurry him out of the door faster. “I’ll catch you up on all the gossip, it’ll be like you were there yourself.”

“You can only get me the gossip if you actually _go to the damn gala,_ ” James had glared, but it probably came out as a snotty jumbled mess of stuffed up noises, because Thomas blew him a kiss.

“Ex-oh-ex-oh, gossip Thomas!” he’d grinned and James had slammed the door in his face.

But Thomas didn’t bring him tea or gossip the next morning: Thomas didn’t show up at all. James, strangely exhausted from conking out early and sleeping like the dead for nine hours, had frowned at his phone and sent Thomas several lines of question marks over Whatsapp.

Thomas replied back half an hour later with, _oh shit fuck motherfucking balls I forgot, I’m so sorry, I’m on my way,_ and then, _If I watch the One Direction movie with you will you forgive me?_ James snorted and sent: _as if you don’t love that movie too, you’ve been to their last two concerts with me. Bring me soup as well, and watermelon jolly ranchers._ _Why am I friends with you,_ Thomas had replied, but turned up at James’ door with tea and soup and jolly ranchers tucked under his arm, along with the blanket made out of baby alpaca hair he knew James loved.

They watched the movie on James’ laptop in bed, bundled up in the blankets, and Thomas hummed along with all the songs. James stuck his cold toes under Thomas’ thighs and ignored Thomas’ grumbling, choosing House, M.D. to watch next, ignoring Thomas’ scoff at that too.

“Sick person gets Netflix privileges,” he’d said smugly and Thomas glared at the side of his head but didn’t say anything.

The rest of the afternoon was relatively quiet, and nothing about it would have seemed off to James if it wasn’t for Thomas checking his phone every five minutes and sighing heavily when the screen yielded no texts or calls. James was no idiot, he knew that Thomas was expecting something from Alexander, as the two had been texting each other nonstop for two weeks as if they weren’t seeing each other constantly. It was odd, Thomas’ phone being so quiet, and Thomas looked more and more upset the longer it stayed silent.

“Gotta go,” he’d said eventually, crawling out of their little cocoon of blankets and heaving himself to his feet. “Gotta buy a new couch, you know, so I should skedaddle.”

James had blinked at him, remembering how he’d pointed out a new stain on Thomas’ couch, how Thomas had choked on his juice and turned an interesting shade of purple, how James had immediately regretted bringing it up because he suddenly knew _exactly_ how that stain got there.

“Sure,” James had said cooly, chewing on a jolly rancher, and Thomas had wrinkled his nose up at him but kissed him on the side of his head and wished him well, saying that he’d come check up on him the next day.

And he did, telling James all about his new couch and how it complemented the rug in his living room, but he seemed no happier. Still no texts or calls from Alexander, and by the time James is recovered enough to stumble his way to his classes, Thomas is more than upset: he’s _angry._

James has no idea what the fuck has happened but Thomas has clammed up like he’s doing a sponsored silence and he’s so tense James is on the verge of suggesting he see a chiropractor. He’d thought things were getting better, after receiving a video from Lafayette of he and Thomas peeling off face masks, obviously drunk, Lafayette giggling and Thomas howling in pain but grinning at the camera, but obviously not. Things have gotten _worse,_ somehow, and now Thomas is slamming doors and angrily brooding all over both their apartments, so much so that he almost snaps poor Sol’s little stem in half when James asks him to go and check that the plant is actually still alive.

“Oh _no,_ ” he moans, stroking Sol’s little leaves and looking like he’s going to cry. “Oh no, oh buddy, I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry,” he mumbles and fashions some sort of splint for the plant out of several toothpicks sellotaped together to hold up its bent stem.

“I’m sure he forgives you,” James says and pats him on the back. Thomas looks at him with wet eyes, big and brown, his eyelashes long and a little bit damp, looking utterly pathetic.

“You really think he does?” he asks, voice wobbly, and that’s when James knows something’s really fucked him up.

He kind of wants to say something, but he also doesn’t. It stings a little that Thomas still hasn’t told him about his and Alexander’s relationship. You’d think, being his very best friend in the whole wide world, that Thomas would feel it’s okay to tell him when things like this happen, but apparently not. Part of him wants to get angry and demand to know why Thomas is keeping it from him, but a larger part of him knows that Thomas just needs time. He’s probably put way too much thought into what he’s going to say and made himself far more nervous than he should be, because that’s something he knows Thomas would do. It’s dumb, but it is what it is, so James pushes the pangs of hurt away and concentrates on being a good and supportive friend and not asking questions.

Thomas perks up eventually. He opens the door with a huge grin on his face when James arrives, laden with food for their Friday night meal together. He looks jubilant, buoyant, like he’s walking on air. He asks if he can help make the meal, looking cheerful and eager, and James doesn’t have the heart to tell him no. He watches like a hawk as Thomas chops the vegetables, though, just in case he slices off a finger, but Thomas hums and sways to music only he can hear and grins from ear to ear the entire night. It’s slightly disconcerting, if he’s being honest with himself.

Thomas just seems to get happier, though he still doesn’t tell James anything. He’s obviously made up with Alexander, probably enthusiastically and in copious amounts all over his apartment, and James checks everything for dubious stains before he sits down anywhere. It still sucks that Thomas doesn’t feel the need to say anything to him, to share this with him, but whatever. James isn’t going to feel resentful of Thomas’ happiness.

It doesn’t stop him from complaining about at his monthly wine-and-cheese-and-complain-about-things evening, though.

“Wait,” Angelica says, munching on a grape, “You’re annoyed that your friend is happy?”

James pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m annoyed that he hasn’t told me _why_ he’s happy,” he clarifies. “We’re best friends, we’re supposed to tell each other everything. I mean, I already know why he’s happy, I just want him to _tell me_.”

Angelica squints at him, tilting her head. Washington watches the whole exchange in amusement, swirling the wine around in his glass and not saying anything. James supposes it should be weird that he attends a very exclusive and slightly specific club with one of his professors, but whatever. It works, and he’s not going to question it. They drink wine and eat cheese and complain about things; it’s very cathartic.

“Why does it matter if you already know?” she asks.

“Because it’s important that he knows he can come to me with this stuff. It’s a big deal! I want him to be able to share it with me!”

“What kind of big deal are we talking here,” Washington pitches in, leaning forward across the table. James opens and closes his mouth, wondering where to start, and then shoves a piece of brie in his mouth to stall for time. Angelica kicks him under the table.

“Stop stalling for time,” she glares, and James does his best to swallow.

“Thomas and Alexander are dating,” he says around half a mouthful of cheese, except it comes out muffled and sounding more like, _domas und salamander are baking._ Washington raises his eyebrows at him and James does his best to chew faster.

“Thomas and Alexander are dating,” he says finally, once all the cheese has gone down, and takes a huge gulp of wine to avoid confronting the silence that’s just settled over the table.

“Alexander as in Hamilton?” Angelica asks, voice high, and when James nods she adds, “Alexander as in the guy that Jefferson can’t stand? The guy that Jefferson snarls at constantly? The guy that posted a ten page blog post about how wrong Jefferson is about everything? That guy?”

“Huh,” Washington says thoughtfully, “I wondered if something was up with those two.”

Angelica turns to him with her mouth open. “ _You_ knew about this too?”

“No,” Washington says, leaning away. Smart man, James thinks. Angelica has sharp claws.

“I just thought something was up. They hugged when I gave them their final mark, which was… Unexpected.”

“It’s been going on for weeks,” James explains. “There’s been some ups and downs, I think they fell out at one point, but Thomas is almost deliriously happy now. Think: walking on sunshine, that’s what Thomas is. I don’t know about Alexander because he’s never around when I’m around, which I _know_ is Thomas’ doing, but he’s probably pretty happy too, if they were hugging in public.”

Angelica takes a big sip of wine. “Why hasn’t John told me about this? Or Hercules or Lafayette, for that matter?”

“I think they’re pretty busy with the polyamorous relationship they’ve just embarked upon,” he says mildly, and watches both Washington and Angelica choke on their drinks.

“What the fuck, am I fucking blind or something?” Angelica says at the same time as Washington says, “All three of them? I’m too old for this.”

“Have some crackers,” James says and pushes the packet across the table to both of them. Angelica gapes at him but Washington takes a couple and crunches through them systematically until Angelica snaps and bats them out of his hands. James’ eyes go wide, because Washington is Angelica’s professor too, and drinking wine with him is one thing but angrily swatting a cracker out of his hand is another.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she says quickly, “I don’t know what came over me.”

“That’s quite alright, Miss. Schuyler, you’re probably in shock. Perhaps you need the crackers more than me,” and she dutifully eats some when he pushes the packet over to her.

“Damn,” she says eventually, slumping in her chair. James hums.

“You can see why it’s a big deal then.”

Both of them nod slowly. They sip wine in silence for a bit until the frustration that James feels bubbles over again.

“I just want him to _tell me,_ ” he whines, tearing up his napkin into little pieces. Angelica reaches over and places her hand over his, warm and comforting, and stills his motion.

“You’re being a good friend by respecting his privacy,” she reassures him. “You know what Thomas is like, he’s probably worked himself all up about telling you. All you’ve gotta do is wait him out and maybe in the mean time let him know that you support him no matter what.”

“Sage advice,” Washington says, tipping his wine glass towards Angelica, who glows a little under his praise.

“But what if they get married and _still_ haven’t told me,” he gripes, and Angelica gets a funny look on her face, like she’s smelled something bad.

“I don’t think they’ll get married any time soon,” she says, and Washington says, “I think maybe you’ve had too much wine,” and that’s the end of that.

They pour him into a cab and he mumbles to himself on the drive home, trying to plan what he can say to Thomas to let him know that he supports him no matter what, only managing to come up with, _“It's not likely I'll be any good at digging graves but I’ll help you bury as many bodies as you need to,”_ and probably thoroughly freaking out the cab driver. He pays the man and gives him a generous tip, limping up to his apartment and flopping onto his bed in relief, immediately passing the fuck out with his shoes still on.

He turns over what he’s going to say in his head for a few days, watching Thomas whistle happily and talk to all his plants. There’s more coconut water in the fridge than ever, which is slightly worrying, because there’s barely any room left on the shelves for actual food. He thinks maybe Thomas should get a separate refrigerator just for all of Alexander’s coconut flavoured drinks, since he’s the only one who drinks them, but doesn’t say anything.

They get high on a Wednesday afternoon, after they’ve turned in all their assignments. Thomas is just finishing up his first year of law school, even though he should be in his second year with James. It kind of sucks that they don’t share classes anymore, but he gets that Thomas had the time of his life in France, and James wasn’t about to put his education on hold just because Thomas wasn’t there with him. James doesn’t regret it and neither does Thomas, and he guesses it turned out to be a good thing he started law school a year later, because it meant he was in all the same classes as Alexander.

Thomas and Alexander had started their _thing,_ whatever it was, in college, sure, but they’d not spent a whole lot of time together. Alexander had been on their radar because of the articles he’d immediately started writing for the university newspaper in his first year, inciting Thomas to respond, because he could never just let something he didn’t agree with slide. Alexander had been in some of their lectures, arguing loudly with everyone but especially with Thomas, because he was bright and a lot of professors just let him test out of their first year classes and take placements in their second year classes instead. It annoyed Thomas no end, and so a rivalry was born.

But not much of a rivalry, he muses as he takes a long hit, spread out on Thomas’ balcony and basking like a cat in sunlight, because now he and Thomas are _in love_ or whatever and Thomas _still_ hasn’t told him about it.

“You know I support you, right,” he says thickly, his tongue struggling to move. Everything is hot and languid and he feels somewhat like he’s in the Matrix, everything in slow-motion. “I’d catch you if you fell.”

Thomas hums happily, stroking the petals of his flowers, making weird shapes with his mouth. “Why is James spelled with an s?” he asks, turning to tilt his head in James’ direction. His curls bounce, springy, in slow motion, and James watches them blow around his head in the breeze. He wonders if Thomas' hair is keeping his ears warm, because James is starting to feel a little cold. Maybe he should grow his hair, he thinks, and tugs on his earlobes, trying to get feeling back into them.

“Can you ever feel your ears?” he asks, curling his palms around his ears and flapping them about.

“Like, why is it plural? More than one Jame. How many James are there?” Thomas continues, ignoring him completely.

“There’s probably more than one James,” James says solemnly, giving up on his ears. Thomas’ eyes go wide.

“How many James?” he asks, poking James in the belly. James grabs his fingers and starts counting, runs out and tries to grab for Thomas’ toes.

“Thomas is plural too. More than one Thomo,” he muses, and Thomas giggles.

“Thomo,” he repeats, “Jaaaaaaaame,” and they echo each other’s names until they don’t sound like real words anymore.

The fact of James’ support of Thomas becomes a little lost in the blur of weed. His leg aches like a bitch the next morning because Thomas has fallen asleep on it, both of them still out on the balcony and shivering in the cold morning air.

“It’s fucking four A.M.,” James mumbles, shoving at Thomas’ dead weight, and Thomas groans and wiggles closer.

“Tell the birds to shut their mouths up,” he groans, pushing his face into James’ neck.

“Shut the fuck up,” James says dutifully, but the birds continue anyway.

“Come on,” he says, kicking his good leg out, “Bed. Bed, bed, bed, bed, bed,” and he keeps saying it until Thomas lets out a strangled scream and stomps into the apartment in a huff, immediately scurrying back and helping James up off the balcony floor.

They crawl into bed together, Thomas’ massive mountain of pillows actually seeming welcoming in this moment instead of making him feel like he’s being smothered, and when he wakes up it’s to the sound of One Direction’s _Wolves_ playing, _I hear them callin’ for you,_ and the name ‘DARLING’ flashing on Thomas’ phone in big letters.

He groans and fumbles for the phone, dropping it directly onto Thomas’ face and watching him wake up with a yell.

“Answer your fucking phone,” he grouses, and Thomas squints at the screen and presses the button to accept the call.

“Why are you calling me so goddamn early,” he says flatly, his accent thick and round, rubbing at his eyes like a little boy and yawning so hard his jaw cracks.

“Yes it _is_ fucking early,” he whines, and turns over so he can rest his head on the pillow and balance the phone on his ear without having to touch it.

“Breakfast? That sounds-” he starts, sounding surprised but happy, and then cuts himself off when he apparently realises James is still in bed with him and listening to the entire one-sided conversation. He turns back around so fast that the phone slips and gets lost in the pillows for a few seconds, and he scrambles for it with wide eyes and frantic fingers as James watches him passively.

“Uh,” he says eloquently once the phone’s pressed back against his ear. “Maybe not today, babe, I’ll call you later,” and hangs up quickly. James raises his eyebrows at him.

“Babe?” he repeats, amused, and Thomas swallows.

“Slip of the tongue,” he says nervously, voice sounding tight. “I’m tired, you know, it happens.”

“Who was that, then?” James asks.

“Delivery guy,” he says after a beat of silence, wincing.

“Your delivery guy calls you? Your _breakfast_ delivery guy?”

If Thomas were wearing a shirt he’d be fingering his collar right now, James thinks. “You know I’m bad at cooking,” he says eventually, “It makes total sense to order breakfast in every now and then.”

James stares at the side of his face. “Suuuuuuuure,” he says slowly, and flops over to throw half the pillows off of Thomas’ bed and make himself more comfortable so he can fall back asleep.

He tries not to let Thomas’ obvious sigh of relief get to him, but it still stings that Thomas hasn’t told him yet, obviously doesn’t even _want_ to tell him. He wonders if Thomas even trusts him, and the ache in his chest is so painful at that thought that he has to squeeze his eyes shut and think of happy things to take his mind off it. Unfortunately, most of his happy things are things he’s done with Thomas, so it doesn’t really work.

He mopes the whole next day, and then goes home and mopes some more. He realises he’s left half his books at Thomas’, _again,_ and wonders if it would be easier to create a magic portal that could teleport his books to him instead of having to go over to Thomas’. He stares really hard at the blank wall in his living room, hoping a gateway to time and space will spontaneously open up, but it doesn’t. After half an hour of sitting there he’s starting to think that Sol is judging him, and that’s when he realises he needs to get the fuck over himself.

“I’m here to get my books,” he calls, letting himself into Thomas’ apartment, and Thomas sticks his head around the kitchen divide and blinks at him.

“Uh,” he says, “Go check in my room, they might be in there,” and then blinks some more, bites his lips, and scurries back into the kitchen.

“Okay,” James says under his breath. He doesn’t remember taking his books into Thomas’ room but whatever, he’ll go and look anyway.

What he finds in Thomas’ room is not his books. Alexander is splayed out in the middle of the bed, passed out on his stomach, sheets tangled around his waist, snoring lightly into the mountain of pillows. His hair is all over the place and there’s several hickeys down his spine that James absolutely does _not_ want to think about, and he backs out of the room immediately.

“Surprise?” Thomas says weakly, looking apprehensive, standing outside the room and wringing his hands together.

James closes the door behind him, takes a deep breath, and slaps Thomas around the upside of his head.

“ _That’s_ how you tell me you’re in a relationship with him? No sitting down and explaining things, no breaking it to me gently, just letting me waltz into your room with a half-naked Alexander Hamilton spread all over your sheets? I’m honestly incredibly disappointed. I thought we were going to have a mature conversation about this like adults but, _no,_ that’s too much for you, so you almost give me a heart attack instead,” he hisses, glaring at him.

Thomas takes a step forward, palms up, as if in surrender. “Wait, what? You don’t sound very surprised.”

“Of course I’m not surprised!” James half-yells, because he’s very aware that Alexander is asleep and probably more than half-naked just a door away. “I’ve known about this for ages! I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, you idiot!”

Thomas blinks, looking a little taken-aback. “You _knew?_ ” he asks, like he can’t get his head around it.

James rolls his eyes. “You’re not exactly subtle. But I waited for you to tell me, because I knew it was important, and _this_ is how you choose to break the news. Jesus H. Christ on a cracker, Thomas, do you want to kill me?”

“Maybe that was a little bit,” he waves his hands about, “Dramatic, but. I didn’t know _how_ to tell you.”

“With words, maybe?” James suggests, and Thomas wrinkles up his nose like he’s going to laugh.

“Come on, come on, I don’t want to wake him,” he says and shoos James away from the door, leading him into the kitchen and pouring him some orange juice.

“Honestly,” James sighs, “All that coconut water. And the constant texting. And the post-orgasmic glow. And the _breakfast delivery,_ what the fuck Thomas, you were the worst at hiding it.”

Thomas groans and sits down at the table, lowering his head until his forehead is touching the wood. “I really didn’t know how you were going to react.”

James kicks him lightly under the table, just a gentle tap. “Hey,” he says quietly, “You know I love and support you, right?”

“You might have mentioned it while we were stoned, but I think we got a bit distracted,” he says sheepishly. James ignores him.

“And I want things for you that make you happy. Alexander obviously makes you happy. It’s not like this hasn’t been in the works for the past five years, or anything.”

Thomas’ lip curls. “Five years? Uh, excuse me, this all happened rather fast, I think you’ll find.”

James stares at him. “Thomas,” he says gently, “I hate to break it to you, but you kept up with his blog and regularly argued with him even while you were in France. That’s nearly five thousand miles away. And yet still you could not seem to let go of him.”

Thomas is quiet for a little bit, brow furrowed, his gaze on the shut door that Alexander lies behind. James waits him out, sips on his orange juice and basks in the satisfaction of _finally_ having Thomas share this with him.

“I guess you’re right,” he says eventually. “You’re cool with it, right?” he asks, aiming for casual but still coming out sounding slightly nervous.

James reaches his hand out and covers Thomas’ on the table top. “Of course,” he says, fully meaning it. Thomas breathes a sigh of relief.

“Good,” he says, “Because I invited Alexander to stay at Monticello over the summer and he said yes so if you’re going to visit me like you do every year then you’re going to have to put up with him.”

James looks at him with what he hopes are warm eyes. “I’m sure I’ll survive somehow,” he muses, “Monticello is a big place. As long as I don’t walk in on the two of you fucking, I’ll be fine.”

“We’ll put a sock on the door,” Thomas promises, and bursts into giggles when James pulls a face at him.

.

Which leads him to where he is now, standing outside Monticello with a packed bag and a bottle of wine in hand, gripping his cane and sweating a little in the heat. There’s nothing like a Virginian summer, and he’s missed this a little. He rings on the doorbell again and shifts on his feet, praying that the bottle of wine doesn’t slip through his sweaty hand in the time it takes Thomas to answer the door.

But it’s Alexander’s voice he hears yelling, “I’m coming!” behind the heavy wood, before he yanks the door open in a rush and skids to a stop, grinning.

“Hey, Madison,” he says, grabbing James’ bag and ushering him in. He slips across the floor in his socks and almost trips and drops James’ bag, wheeling his arms to keep his balance, but rights himself by grabbing the door frame.

“Good thing I wasn’t holding the wine, huh?” he breathes, and James stares at him in bemusement.

“Come on, Thomas is in the garden. Dinner’s about to be served,” he says and waves James over.

“I hope you didn’t let Thomas cook tonight’s meal,” he mutters and Alexander snorts, shoulders shaking, as he leads James into the dining room with a hand hovering over his back like James doesn’t already know the way.

“As if I’d let him anywhere near the kitchen,” he replies, tart, and grins with his tongue poking through his teeth. “We’re having lamb shank and couscous with a mango salad, I hope you’re not a vegetarian, because that would suck majorly,” he says in a rush.

“I’m not,” James says slowly, and Alexander lets out a sigh of relief and actually wipes his brow, like he’s in a cartoon or something.

“Let me take that off your hands, here, sit,” he manhandles James into a chair and takes the wine off his hands. “I’ll get Thomas, just wait here. _Thomas!_ ” he yells while he’s still inside the dining room, God only knows why because the back porch into the garden is practically miles away and Thomas will never be able to hear him.

“Madison is here!” he hears Alexander’s voice continue, fainter this time as he gets closer to the back porch. He waits a few minutes, appraising the paintings on the walls as if he hasn’t seen them a hundred times before, and eventually Thomas comes bounding through the door, clutching a handful of something green in his fist.

“Jemmy!” he cries happily, hefting James up and pulling him into a hug. James puts one hand on the dining table for balance and hugs him back, fondness seeping into his chest for this ridiculous man.

“Tommy,” he says when they pull away and Thomas pulls a face.

“Stop molesting Madison and hand me the rosemary,” Alexander demands from the door and Thomas turns to him, scowling.

“You can call him by his name, you know,” he says and Alexander sticks his tongue out at him and makes grabby hands for the rosemary, which Thomas dangles above his head and makes Alexander hop for it. James rather feels like they’ve forgotten he’s even there. Alexander eventually pinches Thomas’ nipple and snags the rosemary out of his hands when Thomas’ knees go a little weak, which is something James really didn’t need to know about his friend.

“Dinner’ll be ready in five, can you grab the cutlery and glasses please,” he says sweetly and turns on his heel to head for the kitchen. Thomas grumbles, rubbing at his chest, but complies, coming back out with handfuls of forks and knives. He places the glasses on the table just as Alexander brings out the food, and they work around each other like they’ve done this a million times before. It’s disconcerting, but heartwarming to see.

“Dig in,” Alexander says, going for the couscous first and dropping tiny bits of it on the tablecloth as he goes. Thomas and James both stare at him in a little bit of horror, their high society upbringings revolting at the idea of dirtying the tablecloth, before Thomas shakes his head fondly and chooses his bits of meat. James can do nothing but follow his lead, filling his plate and then watching Alexander pick out the pine nuts from the couscous and drop them onto Thomas’ plate like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And he supposes, in a way, that it is. They fell into fighting and then they fell into fucking and now they’ve fallen in love, and it’s all perfectly natural. They fit together, they work around each other, they _know_ each other, so well, obviously. It’s domestic, is what it is, and James finds that he feels a little bit special getting to watch this.

“I chopped these mangoes,” Thomas says, looking proud, and Alexander rolls his eyes.

“But I assure you that I supervised at all times, and he did not cook anything else, so it should all taste fine, and not at all burned.”

Thomas pouts. “It’s not like I’m that terrible, I think you’re exaggerating a little.”

“You can’t make anything but cereal,” Alexander states, “And eggy bread. That’s it.”

“You love my eggy bread,” Thomas whines, and Alexander’s eyes go soft, tilting his head to look at Thomas and smile slowly at him.

“You’re right, I do,” he says softly, and James pulls a face.

“Gross, guys, come on, I’m eating,” he complains and both Alexander and Thomas duck their heads, blushing.

“Did you hear that, though? He said I’m right. How amazing is that?” Thomas grins, and then immediately winces, probably because Alexander just kicked him in the shins.

James smiles, engrossed by their strange relationship, and eats his meal. Alexander and Thomas continue to snipe at each other, their eyes bright, and James feels his heart swell for his friend.

After five years of being at each other’s throats constantly, he thinks that maybe it should be weird to see Thomas turn and brush his lips gently across Alexander’s, to thank him for the meal, but it’s not. It feels like they were always building towards this, just biding their time until the moment was right, and that moment was apparently on Lafayette’s couch a few months ago.

He mentally salutes Lafayette’s exceptional taste in furniture, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> authors deserve feedback. don't be that knob who doesn't leave any. only 5% of you have given kudos on this fic. that means 95% of you either didn't enjoy this fic or can't press a button. i'm tired. leave feedback.


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